


Midsummer Eve’s Bounty

by Vermilion_Sunrise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bounty, Courtship, F/M, Growing Up, Kilts, Lord of the West, Midsummer, Midsummer festival, Sandor as Lord of the West, Sandor in a kilt, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 17:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 55,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18197315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermilion_Sunrise/pseuds/Vermilion_Sunrise
Summary: Sansan, Westerosi A/U:  The Midsummer's Eve Festival is a huge event in the North, most importantly for the young ladies and lords. Sansa takes the preparation time for this event to reflect on her tumultuous relationship with Sandor Clegane, the Lord of the West.This story focuses on a series of encounters Sansa has with Sandor from her youth until the moment she will choose a man to court her at the festival. Then we'll earn the E rating in the epilogue ;-)





	1. The Midsummer’s Eve Festival

**Author's Note:**

> I love it when Sansa and Sandor meet, and really enjoy piecing this together in different ways. I have always wanted to do a series of "first encounters" between them and now I've found a vehicle. This will also fill another two desires I have for this pair: 1) To have Sansa meeting him as a girl and to describe this through the eyes of different ages (this will be a challenge), 2) Sandor in a kilt.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa prepares herself for the most important day of her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to Toodleoo for going through and editing my grammar on this chapter. It reads much nicer and I am so happy you would take the time.
> 
> Cheers!

# Chapter 1: The Midsummer’s Eve Festival

 

A soft summer’s breeze wandered through Winterfell Castle, and Sansa welcomed its warmth on her cheeks. She almost felt guilty for loving this time of year as much as she did, for it was the complete opposite of what the Starks were known for. Sansa would have preferred “Summer is Coming” instead of what her family’s true words were. Deep down she was a Riverlander, born in the North, with all she loved in the North—but her heart had traveled South. She smiled whilst threading some flowers into her garland, thinking about the festival tonight. It would not just be a celebration of the summer solstice and the bounty that summer had brought with it.

The Midsummer Eve festival was also where the young highborn ladies of age choose a man to court.

If there was something Sansa especially loved about the North, it was the unique traditions they practiced. All of her father’s banner men—and sometimes even those who were allied with him—would bring their sons and daughters to the Midsummer Eve Festival. Of course there was a pageantry to the whole event that spoke to Sansa in a way it did not to her sister. Sansa always had an eye for fashion and beauty, and summer was the best time of year for this. Winter was harsh, cold, and lent itself to black and grey, but this festival was a celebration of color and life. It was also a time to feast, dance and mingle with young ladies and lordlings that you wouldn’t normally. Sansa felt a nervousness rise in her stomach, for this night would the first of the rest of her life, what she had been looking forward to since she was a child.

Humming to calm her nerves, Sansa continued to weave flowers for this evening, knowing exactly who she would choose. He would be a controversial choice, she knew that. Her mother would probably not approve, mainly because this man was so different than the other lords allied with her father or in his service. For her father, she couldn’t be sure. True, they had fought many a battle together, but her father did not talk about this lord as much as he did other younger lords. At nineteen years old, she had known the man she would choose almost ten years—he’d been allied with her father at least that long, if not longer. She almost couldn’t remember not having him in her life, though it had been a tumultuous ride between them.

“There you are!” Arya’s voice rocked Sansa from her musing.

Sansa’s sister was pointing at her in the most unladylike of ways with her eyes open wide. It was the look Arya gave when she was up to something, but Sansa couldn’t be sure what it would be this time.

“I’ve been looking all over for you.” Arya skipped over to where Sansa sat, stringing flowers from a bowl for the final decoration in the Great Hall.

Eyeing her sister suspiciously, Sansa knew it was better to keep quiet and not give her anything further to chew on.

Seeing she wasn’t getting anywhere, Arya pulled up a chair, turned it and straddled it facing her. “So tell me, sister dearest... Are you excited for tonight?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sansa countered, still trying to figure out what Arya was after.

“And... is there a special choice for tonight?” Arya wiggled her eyebrows. “You know a lordling... of some sort?”

Sansa couldn’t help but smirk at her sister’s questions, putting her wants out on the table without any sort of class or style. It was so typically Arya. Doing her best to keep her face as schooled as possible, Sansa took her time to reply. “Of course I do.”

“Well?” Arya was practically begging for it by now, and they hadn’t even been talking that long.

“It’s not traditional to tell anybody my choice before the festival,” Sansa continued, focusing more on her work than her own sister with the hope that she would finally go away.

“But we’re sisters.” Arya got up from her chair and stood next to Sansa, so as to better capture her attention. “We can share secrets and other stuff that girls do.”

Stringing a few more flowers on her garland Sansa tried to act scandalized. “You only claim me as your sister now?”

Arya rolled her eyes at Sansa, the frustration bubbling to the surface.

Seeing she had her sister thoroughly hooked, Sansa threw her a little hint. “I guess he’ll be arriving very soon to rest up from his long ride.”

  
All the sudden Arya’s eyes lit up. “He’s foreign! Hmm.”

  
Most of the northern lords and their families had arrived the day before, leaving the foreign lords to trickle in today.

  
“You’d better go wait to see who else has yet to come.” There was a teasing quality to Sansa’s voice that made Arya smile devilishly while she skipped out of the Great Hall.

  
Letting out a sigh of relief, Sansa shook her head and smiled to herself. She was indeed waiting for a foreign lord to arrive, the very thought made her chest tense with excitement. Choosing him would be like meeting him for the first time all over again—though hopefully different at the same time.

  
Sansa thought back to the very first time she had met this particular lord—all those years ago. She had been nothing but a child with silly thoughts in her head. A little girl dreaming of knights, kings, and happily-ever-after endings. This man she would choose tonight was the furthest from that. He had frightened her the first time she had met him, and in so doing, had made an unforgettable impression.


	2. Monsters from the West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Sansa meets Lord Clegane of the West for the first time, and develops a very clear opinion of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just think of Sandor's accent as Rory McCann's normal voice when he's speaking at interviews or comic conventions. So not the Hound's voice in GoT but really with that thick Scottish accent he usually has. #swoon 
> 
> It's tough to transmit a young person's emotions -- I'm not so sure I'm super happy with this chapter, but I think the message comes across.
> 
> There is no warning for this chapter as nothing inappropriate takes place ;-)

#  Chapter 2: Monsters from the West

 

“Seven….eight….nine….ten!” Sansa turned around for the last time, feeling so dizzy she was sure she’d fall over into the dirt of the courtyard. The very thought bothered her, as she did not want to get her blue dress dirty. Having sewed it herself, there was a particular pride she attached to the garment. At ten years old she was the oldest of the children with whom she currently played, but she was also looking after them -- that what her mother had told her. So she took her new responsibility very seriously. That didn’t mean, however, that they couldn’t have a little fun. Taking a moment to steady herself and adjusting her blindfold, Sansa clapped.

 

Her younger siblings and some of her father’s wards giggled watching Sansa so unsteady on her feet, but clapped back. The point of the game was to catch one of the younger children by following the sound of their hands. They had taken a vote and because Sansa was the best at catching the them, the younger children -- lead by her sister Arya -- had decided to make it more difficult on her by making her dizzy. Sansa only had three chances to locate them, her blindfold blacking out the world. 

 

In order to better navigate the tumultuous darkness of Winterfell’s courtyard, Sansa put her hands out in front of her so she didn’t run into anything. For it was dizzyingly clear to her now, that she was and unable to walk in a straight line. Feeling a little sick from her head spinning, Sansa moved in the direction of the closest clap she had heard. The courtyard was teaming with the sounds and smells of people and horses, making it even harder for Sansa to locate one of the kids. This game was even harder than usual today, for there was so much going on in the castle her senses were overwhelmed by sounds and smells she could not completely place. Breathing deeply Sansa did her best to feel around, her steps tentative in the fog of her blindfold.

 

Clapping her hands again, Sansa strained to hear the response claps in the loudness of Winterfell’s courtyard. Her father’s men were readying themselves for something, their armor clanking and their horses being lead from the stables. There were foreign fighters here too, for Sansa heard men murmur words in a language she could not understand and speak the common tongue in accents that were difficult to follow. Moving to her right, she began to zero in on one of the children, despite the mass of distractions. The smells filling her nose were that of horses, which meant she must be nearing the stables. Sansa knew she must be close to Bran. He was the only one of her younger siblings that would have come to here, for he loved the animals more than anybody else. Sansa grinned, for he was also the worst when it came to hiding. Victory would soon be hers.

 

For the last time she brought her hands together and could very clearly hear the response clap near her. Sansa took a few more steps straight ahead, her hands straining in front of her to catch her smaller brother. Feeling a warmth emanate from a body in front of her, Sansa couldn’t help but smile, then she lunged forward. 

 

Immediately Sansa knew she had not grabbed Bran.

 

Her hands grabbed at something firm and hairy, like a man's leg or something, but before she could move backward a huge hand grabbed her hard by the shoulder, while another ripped the blindfold from her head. What stared her in the face was the most gruesome thing she had ever seen, he was more a monster than a man, and Sansa was so scared she couldn’t even scream. She was literally frozen to the ground, her eyes wide in surprise.

 

The monster’s voice was harsh and it carried with it the strong accent of the West, “You had better get your head out of the clouds girl!”

 

Sansa’s eyes were as big as saucers, for the man’s face was the scariest thing she had ever seen in her whole life. It was like out of a story that Old Nan had told her about Sorgrennath, a demon from the woods who ate children. As the story went, the more children Sorgrennath ate, the more ghastly his face became -- leaving him to roam the night in search of tasty young morsels. If this man’s face was any indication, he’d well had his share of the children of the village, and she would be next! 

 

Not knowing what to do, and not able to find a voice, Sansa began to shake in the man’s grasp. She wanted to scream for help, to bite and scratch so as to get away -- but all she could feel were tears welling up from within her and pouring down her cheeks. 

 

True to Sorgrennath’s legend, this man had no remorse. “What’s the matter little girly? Never seen a monster before?” He hit the word ‘monster’ and his eyes widened, making his face even more scary that it already was. 

 

Whatever possessed her in this moment to finally wriggle free from his grasp she could not say, just that the instinct to run overtook her little body and she did just that. Stumbling over the hem of her dress, ripping it and falling into the dirt, she picked herself up as quickly as possible and ran -- though she could hear the laughter of huge man and the other Westerner at his side even as she ran away. 

 

Running past her sister without a second look, and forgetting all of her responsibilities, Sansa made for her room as quickly as she could, tears streaming down her face in warm hot streaks. There was nothing that could stop her from shaking as a rush of emotions drowned her tiny body. It was humiliating to be treated in such a way by a half barbarian half demon. The men from the West were so different from them, with different dress and customs -- and Sansa had heard her mother say they were barbaric. Now she knew it to be true. Sansa would tell her father so he could punish this man for what he had done. He had no right to come to her home and scare her like that -- he even seemed to enjoy her fright, which made Sansa weep even more.

 

Still sobbing, and not even taking a moment to wipe the snot from her nose, Sansa went to her dresser drawer and pulled out a needle and thread. Her beautiful dress had been ripped and it was  _ his _ fault,  _ his _ doing. She needed to fix it before it got worse, luckily it had been a clean tear -- nothing she couldn’t fix. Threading the needle carefully she began to repair her garment and in so doing, to relax a little bit. There was not a time in her life that Sansa could remember when she didn’t sew. She was good at it, certainly much better than her sister, and she took pride in that. 

 

Her hands steadied and her nerves calmed,  _ ‘I’ll tell father what happened and maybe he’ll punish this beast. Perhaps he’ll even get a lashing.’ _

 

Sansa knew what her Septa would say about such thoughts, that they were not for ladies. This she knew, but this demon of a Westerman had angered her so much that she couldn’t help herself. 

 

_ ‘I wonder if this is how Arya feels about me when I tell on her?’  _ She asked herself  while she finished up the hemline. Sansa never got whippings for her poor behavior, not like Arya did. 

 

“Sansa?” She heard her mother’s voice. “Sansa where are you?!” The tone in her mother’s voice didn’t bode well for what would happen next. 

 

_ ‘Oh no the children.’  _ In her anger and humiliation, she had run off and left them in the courtyard unattended.  _ ‘I’m going to be in soooo much trouble!’ _

 

There was, however, no getting around this. So she answered. “In here mother.” Sansa called, trying to sound as innocent as she could.

 

“I’ve been looking all over for you!” Catelyn Stark scolded, and Sansa knew by the look in her eye that she was going to get a talking to. “You left the younger children all alone. They could have been run over by a horse for all I know!”

 

Not looking her mother in the eye, Sansa tried to think up a quick reply. Something that might get her out of this problem. “I’m sorry mother, it’s just…” 

 

She was really in a pickle. Either she must admit to her mother that she abandoned the kids downstairs, or come up with a rather elaborate lie on the spot. Luckily, she didn’t have to go very far. 

 

Catelyn put her arm around Sansa, perhaps having seen the red puffiness of her eyes and instinctively knew she had been crying. “I know it’s hard, with your father leaving today and all. But you could have said something to me. I would have gotten one of the handmaids to look after them.”

 

Relief washed over Sansa, for she had forgotten her father would leave for the West this day -- giving her a good reason for being up here all alone as she was. Nodding to indicate her mother was correct, Sansa hugged her pushing down the emotions from earlier in the day that were again bubbling to the surface.

 

“Come on now, you’d best say bye to him before he leaves.” 

 

Smoothing her blue dress over her legs, Sansa followed her mother down to the courtyard so as to say goodbye to her father, Lord Eddard Stark. She did keep an eye open for the large angry man though, afraid he might jump out from anywhere and snatch her up.

 

It wasn’t difficult to spot her father in the mass of people and horses. Sansa loved how her father’s armor shone in the sunlight, for it was beautifully crafted and suited him. Her father was tall, with his huge sword at his side and he looked so very knightley -- like the ones in her books. But she also knew that when he put his armor on that meant he was going to war and might not come back. Realizing that might happen, made this familiar tightening in her chest come back -- for she was frightened of losing him. He had gone to war many times as she was younger, but this was the first time she really understood what was at stake -- and it scared her more than the big Westerman had.

 

“Papa!” Sansa ran into his arms and the hugged her tight. She could smell his spicy scent, feel the stubble of cheeks on her cheeks as she held him close. 

 

“Sansa my dear. I was afraid we wouldn’t find you before I left.” Her father’s voice was so comforting, but it also made her feel uneasy about letting him out of her grasp. 

 

“Please don’t go papa. We need you here, with us.” She pleaded.

 

Lord Stark smiled at her and knelt down on one knee so as to look her straight in the eye. “Trust me if I had a choice in the matter I would love nothing more than to be with you and your siblings here. But I’m needed elsewhere Sansa.”

 

She tried to protest but he continued, “People need me. It’s part of ruling and part of keeping you safe.”

 

Sansa fought back tears, for she really truly didn’t want her father to go anywhere. It pained her greatly to know he might be killed in some far off place, never to return. To make things even worse, a Westerman in his skirt -- one of yellow and black -- approached her father. Sansa gasped out loud, for it was the same man from earlier. Seeing her reaction, Lord Stark turned to see what was behind him. 

 

Her father addressed the monster by name, “Lord Clegane.” He said jovially, rising to his feet. They shook hands in what Sansa assumed was the western custom, for they grasped each other on the forearm instead of shaking hands. 

 

Glaring at the man from behind her father’s back, Sansa couldn’t believe her father knew and even liked him. Nobody could love a monster like that, not even the Mother herself. Her eyes met the Westerner’s and a smirk crossed his face, only serving to anger her further.

 

“Sansa my dear. This is Lord Clegane, as I am the Lord of the North so is he of the West. Introduce yourself.” 

 

There were no words for how Sansa felt right now. It was a horrid mixture of anger, fear and non-comprehension. Her father was a good judge of character, how could he not see how evil this man was? Something in the back of her head took over, for what came out of her mouth next was certainly not what her mother or her septa had taught her.  

 

“No.” She said to her father, “He’s a monster papa.” 

 

That was a bad idea, for her father whipped his head around so fast Sansa nearly jumped out of her shoes. He brought his face mere inches from her own, and Sansa knew he was not happy with her. “Now you listen to me Sansa. I will not have you act this way. He is a lord of Westeros and he is worthy of respect. Now you apologize and introduce yourself this instant.”

 

Her father didn’t have to raise his voice to transmit his anger, it was all in his words and tone. Sansa could feel the heat rising in chest and cheeks and knew they were turning bright red. She could see Lord Clegane looking at her, his arms crossed over his light leather armor, his expression amused. 

 

She hated him.

 

It took Sansa more than a few uncomfortable moments to pull herself together. Looking the large Westerman in the face only briefly, she did her prettiest curtsey casting her eyes at the floor. “Please accept my apology Lord Clegane. I am pleased to meet your acquaintance.” 

 

Sansa waited in this comfortable position for him to accept her words, but instead she just stood there for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time. Only when her knees began to shake and her arms tremble did he say something in that barbaric western accent. 

 

“No offense taken wee Lady Stark.” When he smiled he looked even more monstrous. With that, on top of the fact that he had bested her in front of her father, made the flush in Sansa’s cheeks all the brighter. 

 

“Good.” Lord Stark said, smiling again. “Well we best be on our way.”

 

Whatever possessed Sansa to grab her father by the arm and pull him back, she could not say, only that she needed to. “Stop father please. Please don’t go!” 

 

Sansa did not trust this man, did not want her father to be anywhere near him. But instead of being able to say it, all she could do was plead tears running down her face.

 

Her father wasn’t happy. “Sansa! I’ve had about enough of this today.”

 

Tears were rolling down her cheeks hot and heavy, there was nothing she could do to stop them. Then the Lord of the West broke in, his marred features almost pitying her. “Don’t you worry Little Bird, I’ll bring your papa back safe and sound.”

 

His words didn’t make her feel any better, not by far. When her father kissed her cheek one last time and turned his back, she threw Lord Clegane a stare with all the little daggers she possibly could. She wanted him to know she hated him more than anything, even more than her sister when she acted up. Sansa’s eyes were so scrunched together so tightly they were hurting as she stared the big man down. In her throat a little growl was forming and her fists balling up.

 

Her blood began to boil even more as Lord Clegane’s lips pulled into a devilish smirk. Then he winked at her. It was as if he liked pushing her buttons, enjoyed scaring her and making her angry. It was as if he reveled in her discomfort. She could not stand him, and would be sure to pray to the old gods and the new that he fell off his horse and had to be taken back to where he had come from. Again, she knew it wasn’t right to wish somebody ill -- but she had never been so angry at somebody, other than her sister, as she was in this moment.

 

Both her father and Lord Clegane mounted their horses, and before she knew it they were gone. Leaving her to wonder in the dust of the courtyard what on earth would have brought her father and a man like this to fight a war together.

 

* * *

 

It would be another three years before Sansa would meet the infamous Lord of the West again. She had been such a stubborn child that she had carried her dislike for him throughout that entire time. Even when her father had returned from the wars in the West victorious, she had still despised Sandor. For he had been the antithesis of everything she liked and was.

 

Smiling, Sansa finished her garland and began to make her way up stairs. She would have to put the finishing touches on her dress before tonight. Though, try as she might, there was no stifling the light sob that came from her throat. For this memory with Sandor Clegane was one of the most painful she had ever known. 


	3. The Penitent Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa goes on a hunting trip with her father and brother, unfortunately the Lord of the West is also there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow sorry for the long wait for update. Life has been crazy.....and this is such a long long chapter. I really hope you enjoy it. There's some action going on here. 
> 
> The lines indicate time has passed ;-)

#  Chapter 3: The Penitent Man

 

“But mother please!!!! I really really want to go!” Sansa had gone over the edge of pleading by this point, determined to get her way by any means necessary. “I never get to go anywhere. I’m always stuck in this stupid castle”

 

She knew arguing with her mother was like reasoning with a brick wall. Catelyn Stark was well aware of the games she and her siblings would play to get their way. That was why Sansa hoped to drag this argument out long enough for her father to enter the solar. The moment she would look at him with her Tully blue eyes and a whimper on her lips he would say yes. He always did.

 

“Sansa it’s too dangerous, and besides that you would be the only woman among them. It’s just not proper.” Her mother had her arms crossed and her chin was set, this meant her mind was made up. Sansa could feel her chest tighten at the thought.

 

It went without saying, however, that if Sansa was anything she was stubborn. “But Robb always gets to go everywhere and do everything. Didn’t you say you also went on a hunting excursion when you were a young lady? I want to see something more than the dark and dreary walls of this awful castle.” 

 

There was a moment where her mother was certainly thinking through her words, coming up with the proper retort in her head. Sansa stared defiantly at her, hoping that she could also leverage the fact that she had only just celebrated her fourteenth name day to go on this trip with her father and Robb. Nonetheless she prayed she didn’t have to. Sansa cringed thinking that all it would take to end this conversation would be the final word of her mother and banishment to her room. Luckily, before she could even think on the whole situation further, the door to the solar opened. 

 

It was her father.

 

Lord Stark knew immediately that she and her mother were in the middle of an argument. For Sansa had her arms crossed over her chest and Catelyn Stark had her hands on her own waist, the two stances they took when they argued with one another. His eyes went from one to the other, then back again before he spoke.

 

“It seems like I’ve barged into a rather deep conversation.” He said somewhat jokingly, approaching them gingerly in an attempt to lighten the mood.

 

“Don’t worry Ned.” Her mother said, “It was just ending.”

 

This was Sansa’s moment to plead her case to her father, she couldn’t muck it up -- lest she be left at home in her room looking out at the sky, forced to do things with her sister. She wanted to spread her wings, see the world — not be stuck in this dark dreary castle.

 

“Father please take me with you. I’ve never been more than a few towns outside of Winterfell and I would love to see more of the south.” It was important not to over do it with her father, Sansa knew this. So she fought the urge to plead and beg, keeping the pitch of her voice as even as possible. She did, however, open her eyes a bit wider showing off those deep sapphire blues. 

 

There was some sort of non-verbal communication happening between her parents, Sansa could see it in the way her father’s mouth moved ever so slightly and her mother’s nostrils flared. Her mother had certainly made her decision, but Lord Stark on the other hand, was still considering Sansa’s words. 

 

“Robb said I could come. We already agreed to share a tent. He’ll keep me safe papa.” She was far too grown up now to use the word ‘papa’ as much as she used to, but Sansa did reserve it for just these kinds of occasions -- when she needed to tip the scales ever so slightly in her favor. 

 

Her father ran his fingers through his beard, a sign he would not side with her mother. Clenching her fists with anticipation, Sansa did her best not to show how much she wanted this -- afraid it might influence her father in the wrong way. Though, as the minutes stretched on, Sansa couldn’t help twitch in hope of what would come out of her father’s mouth.

 

“I don’t see the harm in her coming along Cat. Both Robb and I will look after her, aside from that some of my closest men will be there.” Ned then turned his attentions to Sansa, “Now you know we’re going to have to ride for at least a day, and live in a tent for a week. It will be dirty, and there’s going to be blood. You think you can handle that?”

 

Sansa’s smile was so broad it almost hurt her face. She wasn’t sure if she could really handle the muck and the dirt, or even seeing the poor animals her father would kill being strung up and gutted. But if it meant getting away from the castle, even just for some days, it was well worth it. Nodding emphatically Sansa wrapped her arms around her father’s neck and kissed him on the cheek.

 

“Thank you father, I’m so excited.” She could barely contain herself.

 

“My little girl isn’t so little anymore.” Ned began, a nostalgic look coming to his face. “Before long I’ll be giving you away to a proper lord and you won’t be mine anymore.” Her father ran his fingers through her hair and smiled. 

 

“Now go pack your things, we leave tomorrow early morning.” He grinned.

 

Sansa skipped off toward the door only vaguely hearing her father’s last words, “And don’t pack too much.”

 

This was so exciting, it was the best thing to ever happen to her. _ ‘Perhaps I should tell Arya.’  _ Sansa thought to herself, then quickly decided against it. _ ‘No. She’ll just beg to come along too and ruin everything.’ _

 

Humming to herself, Sansa made her way to her room and went to work putting together the things that would go in her trunk. She would take only what she needed to survive. Picking out some riding pants, a blouse and a long sleeved jacket, Sansa knew she would need these things to ride. Though she loathed pants, they were supposed to be the best thing one could wear when riding as long as her father said they would -- so Sansa knew she had to bring them. Placing these items, along with her riding boots on a chair for the morning, Sansa went about packing her things for the week. A few dresses here, three different pairs of shoes, a coat in case it got cold, some candles and books for the evening, some perfume to smell pretty -- everything was placed neatly in her trunk. It was only with a little force that she was able to close the lid and pull the latch. 

 

Sansa followed the boys who were taking the trunk and loading it with the rest. Her’s was larger than her father’s or Robb’s but that didn’t matter much, she was a lady after all, and ladies simply needed more things. Not noticing, or caring, for the looks of her father’s men who were preparing the hunt, Sansa went to the dining hall with a grin on her face. Nothing would make her more happy than being rid of this place even if for just a little bit.

 

* * *

 

 

 

They had been riding since before dawn, with the sun now nearly straight over top of them. For as wonderful as the trip had started, all Sansa could think of now was how badly her rear end hurt. She deeply regretted not padding her saddle even more than she had, but she did her best not to complain. Normally when she went riding, it was for no more than an hour or so, with a stop for lunch or to pick beautiful flowers. Never had she ever ridden this long and at such a pace. 

 

_ ‘But you have to show papa you are strong.’  _ She kept reminding herself.

 

Attempting to ignore the soreness of her behind, Sansa did her best to focus on the beautiful landscape around her. It was so very green and different from what she was used to. They had long since left the thick and dark forests of the North and come to some incredibly lush, emerald meadows dotted with trees and teaming with small streams and lakes. There were flowers blooming all around, for it was early summer -- and though in the North it was still too cold for her tastes -- here the sun was warm and the air smelled of sweet summer buds. 

 

It was not long after they had stopped for a quick lunch, that her father’s caravan took a strange turn. They were no longer heading south, but had begun to make their way west. Sansa knew this for the sun was now in front of them. 

 

“Where are we headed exactly Robb?” She asked, her brother next to her and keeping her voice as low as possible.

 

“We’re meeting up with the last of our little hunting party.” He replied.

 

This was certainly not the answer she had expected. What did he mean “the last of our little hunting party”? Sansa was sure it would just be them and a few of her father’s men on this week long trip. The introduction of new people was both curious, and not what she had expected at all. 

 

_ ‘Humm, perhaps this is why mother was so resistant.’  _ Sansa contemplated as she kept her horse moving alongside her brother’s.

 

Nodding as if she had known all along their trip would take this unexpected turn, Sansa’s mind raced as to who they could be meeting or what they would be doing. 

 

She didn’t have to worry about it for long.

 

Ahead of them, after a sharp turn in the road, was a gathering of men on horseback. She hadn’t seen them at first, far too caught up in thinking about how their week would go. It had been the sound of their horses and chatter that had refocused her attentions. They were a small band of Westermen, no more than fifteen in their ratty kilts and tunics. 

 

Just as the question entered her mind as to what in the name of the Seven her father would want to hunt with them, Sansa’s heart suddenly sank into her gut. For the man on horseback at the head of this band was none other than Sandor Clegane. Though some time had passed since their last encounter, she could not forget how mean and horrible he had been to her. She instantly felt her cheeks burn red in anger and knew she could not hide her displeasure with his presence even if she had wanted to.

 

Sansa had read much about her father’s western allies since she had seen them last. In so doing, she had learned much about their ways from Maester Luwin. Westermen were so incredibly different than other peoples of Westeros with regard to their customs and a social structure that one would almost think them incompatible with modern life. 

 

Certainly she did.

 

They had a clan structure for one, large extended families who banded and fought together for land and influence. There were no established houses in this area of the island until very recently, which meant the mighty “Lord of the West” was nothing more than one step up from a peasant. He was merely was considered first among equals, so not even a proper lord in the way Sansa’s father was. In her spare time Sansa had taken the liberty to research the Clegane family line, and it was nothing if not underwhelming. Sandor Clegane’s grandfather had kept dogs for hunting, his father had done the same and seemed to have a little military prowess. It had been the current Lord Clegane that had pushed the Westermen into the forefront of Westerosi politics, gaining more territory and influence. They were new to the political landscape of Westeros and known for being unruly and unreliable. This of course, begged the question as to why her father had chosen to work with them.

 

Taking in the group of men before her, Sansa couldn’t help but wonder what era they came from. Westermen were known for riding their horses without a saddle and blanket. Squeezing the mighty beasts between their thighs and using only reigns and a bridle to steer them — and sometimes not even that. It was said that it offered them more flexibility in battle when on horseback, thus allowing them to fight from their mount without the hindrances of a saddle. 

 

Sansa thought this nonsense. 

 

Of course all Westerosi had ridden without saddle -- back in the times before saddles were invented. Smirking at the thought, Sansa laughed to herself at  how barbaric the men in front of her were. She almost pitied them, almost. 

 

_ ‘At least they use swords and not rocks and sticks.’  _ She thought.

 

Though, she had to admit, the act of riding horses was most likely perfected in the lands from which Clegane came. The stallions of the Westerlands were legendary on the island for being strong, fast and fearless. Sansa didn’t need to look upon Lord Clegane’s mighty black steed to know where it came from. It was almost a shoulder taller than either her or Robb’s horses, broader, stronger and muscled. In her research on the Clegane clan it was said Sandor Clegane had tamed the wild beast himself, tracked it for days, persevering through the elements — even fighting a bear — until finally he was able to capture it. The Maester who wrote the story fashioned it as a tale of the young Lord’s perseverance -- that once he set his mind to have something, he would not rest until he got it. Sansa couldn’t claim to know anything about the Lord of the West herself, other than the fact that he too great pleasure in scaring children. 

 

But she was a child no longer. 

 

Sansa eyed the giant of a man before her, trying to school her expression. Westermen were known for their style of dress, for it was so different from the rest of the island. Sansa couldn’t say that she liked it. As a matter of fact the skirt they wore, or a kilt in their gaelic language, seemed like nothing more than a pleated piece of cheap fabric with a horrific pattern that indicated the family they belonged to through color. The monstrous Lord of the West wore a kilt of yellow and black tartan, the full length of the rest of the fabric pulled across one broad shoulder hanging down around his back. The hem of this garment would have been to his knees, but was a bit high as he sat upon his horse. 

 

Sandor Clegane’s  tunic was an off white color,  _ ‘Probably from lack of washing or age. _ ’ Sansa mused while she looked him over. Its sleeves were rolled up to his elbow, the lacing in the front open, exposing an impenetrable, thick and dark bit of chest hair. He didn’t have a wife, and it wasn’t hard for Sansa to imagine why. For it wasn’t just that he was an unattractive man, but a cruel one as well. 

 

That was why it was so strange to see him smile as he grasped her father’s forearm in greeting. There were many stories about Sandor Clegane, none of them were good. So she could not wrap her brain around her how father could smile or join forces with a man as bad as him.

 

“Do you know why they call him ‘The Hound’?” Robb whispered in her ear as they watched their father talking with Clegane at a distance.

 

“No.” Sansa whispered back, her eyes still on the two men in front of her. She was indeed curious to know how he could get such an unbecoming nickname.

 

“Aside from being one of the best warriors in Westeros, it’s said he’s among the best hunters. There’s not a doe, pig, hare -- or man -- that can escape him. That’s why father’s so keen to hunt with him.” Robb’s eyes twinkled when he talked about the Lord of the West, as if he were something to be revered.

 

Nodding, Sansa kept her eyes focused ahead. Motioning them to come up, Lord Stark smiled at her and her brother. As the Hound’s eyes followed her father’s arm, he didn’t cover up the look of surprise that came over his face at the sight of Sansa. Keeping a neutral expression like her Septa had taught her, Sansa’s eyes met Sandor’s and she hoped he could feel the coldness rolling off of them. She might have been afraid of him as a child, but not as a young woman. 

 

And she wanted him to know it.

 

Shifting his eyes from hers to Robb, Clegane grasped his forearm in greeting -- similar to how he had her father. When it came to her, the great warrior of the west made no motion extend a hand. He merely inclined his head and mumbled something she couldn’t understand in a manner that would have been considered shy in the North. Sansa snorted, pleased with herself that her tactic had worked. It was still rude not to greet her properly, and she wouldn’t forget that either. 

 

Without any further waiting, Clegane took his horse next to that of her father’s and they continued on the road. It would be nightfall before they arrived at their camping spot, and the Lord of the West did his very best to avoid her -- to an extent it was almost infuriating. Though it was perhaps unfair of her to expect barbarians to treat her with any sort of respect, Sansa couldn’t help but wonder how the rest of the week would turn out.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The first two days of the actual “hunting” were so boring, Sansa couldn’t understand why men were so interested to do it in the first place. The open fields and thin forests of the West were so quiet, it was as if there were no animals there at all. They would wake before dawn, attempt to track an animal, find their luck poor and then drink and talk around the fire from lunch time onward. Though she didn’t dare say anything of her displeasure, for it seemed as though her father and Robb were having a good time, it was as if the week dragged on at a snail’s pace. It was so utterly boring that she was relieved to have a wealth of books and candles in her travel chest so as to excuse herself and sit at the base of the huge tree over her tent to read. 

 

_ ‘At least I’m not cooped up at home.’ _ Sansa kept telling herself as the laughs and drinking went well into the night. 

 

It was not until the third day that they had actually hunted and killed something. Well more than something, many things. There were two wild boars as big as her and a doe. All the men in the camp were proud of themselves and wasted no time dressing the animals near the tents. The poor things were strung up between trees, hanging there lifeless. Sansa had never seen anything so gross in all her life. They were cutting open cute animals, gutting them and hanging them so their blood ran in giant pools below them. It had made her so sick to her stomach that she had to excuse herself and throw up behind a tree. 

 

Of course it was bad enough that she was heaving her guts out, but it was even more embarrassing when some of the Westermen stumbled upon her while she was doing it. They merely threw her some grins and kept going, but she knew they had told their Lord about it. For when they did cross paths later that evening he had thrown her a particularly disparaging and knowing grin. 

 

Now, more than ever, she hated him.

 

On the fourth day there was a rider from Winterfell, and her father had to return immediately. Lord Stark did not tell them the reason, only that he had return home without delay— though he had assured them it was nothing too serious. Sansa could tell her father didn’t like the idea of leaving her here, but Robb had immediately stepped in and promised to keep her safe -- and that seemed to put her father at ease. Though she had considered going with her father, Sansa didn’t want it to look like she was giving up early or backing out. She wanted to show to everybody -- her family and these Westermen -- that she was tougher than they thought. She had a driving need to show them her peachy skin was just as tough as their hardened sun worn skin.

 

Then it rained. 

 

It had only just become light, Sansa had kissed her father goodbye and the drops had started to fall. They were huge, drenching the camp in a matter of minutes and dampening the men’s spirits. It was decided they wait for the evening to hunt again, as all the animal tracks would be washed away -- the animals would bed down until the downpour ended anyway.

 

_ ‘The great tracker the Hound afraid of a little rain?’  _ Sansa had asked herself as she watched the Westermen bunch their kilts together in the front, cover their heads and make their way back to the their tents quickly. Robb went back to their tent to sleep off the drinking from the night before. Sansa could see he was secretly happy they wouldn’t go out into the wilderness at the crack of dawn today.

 

For herself, Sansa was happy she had packed some books and enough candles to ensure she could read all of them if necessary. Though, if she had to be honest with herself, she had envisioned this trip being something very different from what it had become. There had been a lack of action and adventure. Sansa had always thought such trips were less about drinking and telling war stories between men around a campfire, and more about tracking animals and becoming one with the woods. In addition to that she felt confined. Though this was the farthest she had ever been from her home, she had not been allowed to wander far from the camp -- so she couldn’t really explore the Westerlands as she had hoped. On top of that she couldn’t help but feel the eyes of the Westermen on her. It wasn’t a foreboding feeling that they gave, nor did it make her feel as though they would snatch her up in the night. But their eyes, and the strange language they used to talk amongst themselves made her feel more out of place than she already was. 

 

Settling under a small communal tent, away from all the others, Sansa lost herself in her book. They were more fairy tales than high literature, but that didn’t bother her at all. Fairy tales had always been her mental escape of choice, a way to transport herself from the darkness of the north, to the meadows of no place in particular. Sometimes she would imagine herself the lady in distress, saved by a strong and fair knight. Other times she would pretend to be the heroine, using her wit and quick thinking to save the day. 

 

Today, she was just happy to be anywhere else but here. 

 

She couldn’t say when the rain had stopped, only that as she finished her book she realized that the sun was fighting its way through the clouds. The sudden heat of the sun had created a bit of a fog, forcing the water on the ground to rise into the air making it hotter than it actually was. Sansa noticed the sweat on her blouse and was instantly relieved that she had brought enough to battle this inhuman temperature. Tiptoeing across the muddy floor of the camp, Sansa made her way to her trunk, covered by a bit of tarp behind the tent she and Robb shared. Lifting up its heavy lid, she began going through her things. Bending over it so she could get to the real bottom of the trunk, seeing as she had packed her blouses first, Sansa couldn’t help but hear a bit of laughter coming from behind her.

 

Coming up quickly she hit her head on the lid of the trunk, “Ouch!” She yelped, rubbing the back of her head. 

 

Taking a moment for the soreness to go away, Sansa then turned toward the light laughter. It was the Westermen of course, with their leader, all looking in her direction. She didn’t know what they found so funny or why, only that she didn’t find their sense of humor appealing at all. Sansa did her best to ignore them as she would her sister when she was angry with her. Everytime Arya misbehaved it was almost better to just pretend she didn’t exist than to yell and scream at her, though Sansa’s first impulse was just that. At times she was given to theatrics, Sansa couldn’t deny it. 

 

Doing her best to keep her cool, Sansa turned and went back to rifling through her enormous trunk. She knew her other blouses were down there somewhere, but there were so many things in the way she just couldn’t seem to push them to the side long enough for her to dig yet deeper still. Leaning as far forward as she possibly could, Sansa began to feel her feet lift from the floor, then, -- before she could stop her forward momentum -- she went tumbling into the trunk itself. 

 

There was yet another bit of laughter, much louder than the time before. Sansa could feel her cheeks burning with anger, her fists balling up in frustration. They were mean, and barbaric -- everything Sansa wasn’t -- and she just couldn’t let them behave this way in her presence.

 

Crawling out of her trunk, Sansa stalked over to where the Westermen were sitting, her father’s men nowhere to be seen. They were sitting in a circle around a meager fire, their legs open though they wore a style of dress that would have suggested it better, and more appropriate, for them to cross their legs. Not caring, she made her way right to the Lord of the West and stood so he could see her. 

 

“What’s so funny my Lord?” She had her hands on her hips, one cocked to the side -- an air of defiance that the northerners often attributed to her red hair.

 

The men in the circle exchanged uneasy glances, but smiled all the same, looking at their leader and taking sips from their flasks. Sansa didn’t know what they were thinking, or what they murmured to one another -- given they spoke a completely different language than the Common Tongue. 

 

The Lord of the West eyed her a moment, his grotesquely burned features in full view -- not hidden by his long dark hair. It seemed as though he considered something for a brief moment, then made a decision. When he stood up, Sansa almost instantly regretted her bold attitude -- for he towered over her intimidatingly. Her head was only at his chest level, her shoulders fitting easily two or even three times in his wide build. Clegane’s forearms were muscled they probably as big as her thighs, his kilt still splotched with blood from yesterday’s kill. Looking up at him Sansa understood a little better why it was said he was the most feared warrior in all of Westeros -- because had had certainly struck fear in her just by looking at her.

 

But she didn’t show it. She wouldn’t let him win.

 

The monster of a man stood before her, his arms crossed with not a sound coming out of him. When she realized he had no intention of speaking, she repeated herself. “I asked,” Sansa began, narrowing her eyes for effect, “What’s so funny?”

 

There was another uncomfortable shift from the men who sat in a circle, but all eyes were now on Sandor Clegane. Sansa could see he was a man of few words, uncomfortable with the spotlight. One could have assumed this from the scarring that marred his face. But she didn’t care. She wanted him to feel uncomfortable. So she waited for his response, tapping her foot on the ground lightly.

 

Clegane shifted uncomfortably, as if he was unsure how to address her. She was pretty sure he did not know how to talk to women, for he seemed to have no issue talking or sharing stories with her father and brother. 

 

“Mi lads and I were just sayin’ that you have more clothes than all of us combined.” The Lord of the West had a thick accent, and Sansa strained to understand his words. His men chuckled in the background, their eyes back to her.

 

“And you take joy out of laughing at others?” Sansa asked her voice taking a more heated tone. If there was one thing she hated, it was bullying and rudeness. These men were in no way like the knights she read about, and their leader much less like the lords she already knew. 

 

Clegane exhaled, indicating he was annoyed but said nothing. It only served to anger Sansa further. She could feel the color rising in her cheeks, flushing through her neck and chest. “What kind of Lord of Westeros behaves in such a manner? You should be kind and fair to people, not rude and malicious. I expect an apology!”

 

That made even the Lord of the West crack a grin, for he crossed his arms and the corners of his face pulled up. 

 

“The little bird expects an apology.” He chuckled, and Sansa could feel the heat in her body taking over. She knew it was not right to wish the death of another, but she so wanted to fly at him -- make him feel the brunt of her fury. 

 

Now she started yelling. “Well of course I expect an apology. And I expect it now! I can’t believe for one second that….”

 

Clegane cut her off abruptly with a hand, his eyes shifting to the east as if he had heard something. 

 

Sansa wasn’t buying it.

 

“How dare you tell me to…” She began with all the fury her little body could offer.

 

“I said shut the fuck up!” The Hound murmured through gritted teeth, his finger coming mere inches from her mouth in a motion to shush her. His eyes went wide and in that short moment, Sansa could hear them too. 

 

Riders coming at speed. Surely they would not be friendly.

 

“You get in that trunk of yours and hide girl.” He said, turning his head to the oncoming assault and yelling some kind of war cry -- for the other men of his clan all jumped to the ready. Sansa’s legs moved as quickly as they could, but not before she witnessed Clegane draw his massive sword with easy and swing it around his head. He was a beast, a thing of nightmares -- but at least he was on their side. 

 

Jumping into her trunk quickly, and not caring about the mud on her boots, Sansa closed the lid and peeked out from a small keyhole. These riders were also Westermen, but clearly they had an issue with Clegane. They wore kilts of red and gold and they attacked with a ferociousness that Sansa could not have imagined. Everything had been silent only a few moments before, but they had introduced an utter chaos into the pristine and peaceful wood. The sounds of horses, men and swords cut through the nature, like a mighty river forming a valley. She literally had to put her fingers in her ears to deaden the noise that had shrouded their camp. 

 

Robb then came into her field of view, his hair a mess but his sword at the ready. Though he was not a knight, he reminded her of one of the heros in her stories. Fair of face, strong and true. Sansa had seen him fighting in Winterfell, training with their master of arms, and she knew he was good. He had always gotten a lot of praise for his swordsmanship and she could see that now. The first two men who approached him were cut down immediately, making Sansa both happy and shake with pure anxiety. Shifting her head, so as to better keep her brother in view, Sansa could feel her breath quicken. Robb’s sword met with an attacking Westerman’s, then again and again before her brother got the upper hand. There were a growing number of barbarian bodies around him, and Sansa found herself wishing their deaths. 

 

Her exhilaration quickly turned to horror as not only one Westerman, but two, then three met Robb in battle at the same time. It was too many, a part of her knew that. Yet her brother fought with the heart of a knight and the gallantry of a lord -- no knight ever died in her fairy tales and she prayed it wouldn’t happen now. His sword blocked one, then another, then the third’s -- then it didn’t. Sansa could see the face of the man who drove his sword through Robb very clearly — for he was facing her when he did it. She screamed so loud her vocal chords strained, but she knew no man or god could hear her — not in this chaos. 

 

The three men left her dying brother and ran off into battle. Not knowing what possessed her to do so, Sansa jumped out of her hiding place and ran over to Robb.

 

Grabbing his hand with tears in her eyes she was yelling, “Robb, oh Robb. Come on, stay awake. Don’t close your eyes, no….please don’t...don’t…” 

 

Blood was running out of his mouth, his eyes were rolling into the back of his head and Sansa knew in her gut that he was not long for this world. She watched him struggle a while longer, the less, until finally the life left his eyes. 

 

She didn’t want to believe it.

 

Sansa couldn’t even let a tear fall from her eye before she felt her arm being gripped and pulling in another direction. Turning she instinctively pulled her arm back, wrestling herself out of the grip of the enemy Westerman in front of her. Merely laughing at her look of surprise he tried to grab her again, but she shuffled back on her butt — doing her best to evade his grasp. When he went to take her again, his expression quickly turned from joy to shock, then to understanding. The tip of a sword pushed through his gut, warm splotches spraying across Sansa’s face. The man fell to his knees and Sansa looked past him, to see who her next assailant would be.

 

Never in a million years would she have thought she’d feel relief at the sight of Sandor Clegane, his sword bloodied to the hilt, his chest heaving with exhilaration. He turned his back to the chaos and reached out his hand to her.

 

“Come lass, there’s nothing we can do for him.” He said referring to Robb’s body, which lay no more than a foot or two from them.

 

What struck her in this moment was how calm he was. There was a complete lack of fear in him, and she didn’t know what to do with it. All she did know was that she wasn’t going to leave Robb’s body here.

 

Sansa shook her head no.

 

The Lord of the West’s eyes were a steel grey, the color of anthracite — they were such an unusual color Sansa had never seen before. Instead of filling with anger, they softened — the sun worn wrinkles at their sides relaxed — allowing him to open his eyes wider. He pushed his enormous hand a little closer to her.

 

“Sansa.” He began. 

 

It felt so strange to hear her name coming out of the mouth of a man such as Clegane. Sansa would have thought he’d say it harshly, that it would come out in such a cacophonous way — that she would barely be able to understand it. But she was wrong. The way Westerners said their vowels had the effect of making her own name sound soft and gentle, like a warm summer’s breeze. It was so unexpected, that she couldn’t help but listen further.

 

“I promise I won’t hurt you, and I won’t let anyone else hurt you either. But you have to take my hand.” Clegane did not plead or beg her, he merely waited for her to make her choice.

 

Her eyes never left his as she put her tiny hand into his palm, Clegane’s fingers engulfing her hand. He pulled her to her feet and said something to a man next to him. They both looked at Robb a moment and the other picked up up over his shoulder and ran off. That was the last she saw of her brother, for the Lord of the West spirited her away through the noise and the fighting to his mighty war horse.

 

Most animals would have been spooked by this point, pulling and bucking to be let free — but not his horse. Sansa felt as though it fed off the chaos of war, for it looked ready to cut down any man in its path. Clegane lifted her onto its back, and she found she could hardly straddle the beast. But she had little time to consider how she would ride this horse, or worse fall off of it. The Lord of the West settled in behind her, taking the reins in one hand and his huge sword in another. The man leaned in so close to her, that she could feel his breath on her ear as he spoke.

 

“Squeeze him tight between your knees and hold on to his mane as hard as you can.” Sansa did so. “Now lay as flat as you can on his neck and put your head to his right side. Whatever you do, don’t open your eyes, got it?”

 

She didn’t look back at him, but she nodded all the same and gripped the black stallion with all her strength. It felt scarcely enough to keep atop him as Clegane pushed the horse into a full gallop. But neither beast nor its master strained in these conditions, for Sansa knew this was what they did. They were one in battle, both enjoying it more than anything else. 

 

It didn’t take her long to understand why Westermen rode without a saddle, for she could feel Clegane constantly adjusting behind her for the aggressors they encountered. Though she could see nothing, she could hear when his sword hit something or when it hit air. She knew when it went through soft flesh or cut through bone. The sounds were so incredibly distinct, yet she had no words to describe such carnage. She could feel the horse sweating, smell its musky scent as it soaked her skin and her clothing. 

 

But she held on for dear life, though she felt empty inside.

 

Unsure as to when the fighting had stopped, she strangely became aware that the noise of the battle had died down — and the woods were silent once again. Opening one eye slowly, then the other, Sansa could see they were walking a treeline, the woods to their left and an open field on their right. Her fingers hurt from clutching the horse and she was happy to sit up and relax them.

 

They were alone. There was nobody around them, and the Lord of the West made no effort to say anything. Not that she wanted to talk to him or anybody else. She’d lost her brother, watched him die and couldn’t grasp the reality of it. Surely her body must have ached from all she had just been through, but she felt none of it. If anything she felt empty, destroyed, guilty — so many things all at the same time that she could not sort them properly.

 

Normally Sansa was able to control her emotions, but she could not stop the storm of tears that rolled down her face or the shaking of her body. She didn’t want to do this now, not with him, not here — alone. But it was as if she had no choice in the matter, for her sadness and loss showed itself unbid through her body. 

 

Before she knew it, Sansa felt a hand push her knee over the horse’s neck, so she sat sideways on it. Moving the reins from both hands to one, Clegane wrapped an arm around her and pushed her into his chest. He said not a word, nor did Sansa make a move to look at him — but it was oddly comforting. He was the last person on earth she would have sought comfort from, but as they were now he was the only other person on this earth, as far as she knew. Turning her cheek into his firm, strong body, Sansa found herself sobbing into his bloodstained tunic. There was so much blood on it she wondered if he were injured. Though even if he was, it could not have been badly for his heart beat strong and even in his chest. 

 

Gripping the side of his tunic with a hand, she clutched him tightly — though she felt ashamed for wetting his chest with her tears. They kept riding though, but for how long she couldn’t say for it was only when the horse stopped that she opened her eyes again. 

 

A small brook lay before them and Sansa felt the Hound dismount. She hadn’t looked upon his face the whole ride, but now it was the closest thing to her as he took her from his horse. It was streaked in red, a reminder of what they had lived through. Tying up his horse to a tree, the Lord of the West made his way to a wider part of the brook, about forty or fifty paces away. Then he let out a wail so sorrowful and so angry, that it made Sansa’s heart feel heavy. In a fit of anger he took his sword and threw it hilt over tip into the field, where it stuck into the ground blade first. He had been so calm before, that somehow she felt comfort in the fact that he was hurting too. It made him more human, more real. 

 

Once his fit was finished, he dropped to his knees in front of the stream and looked into the water. He splashed water on his face once, then again — running his long dirty hands through his beard. Then he pushed his head under water and pulled it back up. The water ran pink with the blood that washed off him. Clegane’s hands and forearms were next. Then, seeing his tunic was just as soaked as the rest of him, he removed it and pushed it below the water’s surface.

 

Sansa had never seen a man in such a state of undress before. It was forbidden in the North for a lady such as herself to look upon a man like this. She knew she should turn away, but she didn’t. She was curious as to what kind of a man he was, for today had thrown her opinion of him into turmoil. 

 

From where she stood, Sansa could see every muscle in his arms. They were well defined and bulged from his body in a way she had not seen in any man or soldier that served her father. It wasn’t difficult to understand why, for his sword was as big as she was and the material it was made out of was not known for being light or balanced. So a man needed strength to wield it. His chest, all the way to his neck and down to his waist line, was covered in dark hair. As if he were a beast from the woods. Sansa wasn’t sure what to make of it, for it was so foreign to her. For as thick and curly as it was, his chest hair didn’t hide the strength of his upper body and stomach. She could see the lines there and wondered how a man could become so strong. It was of course, a trait of his House. Sansa had read this. She knew his older brother had been even bigger and stronger than him before his untimely death. There were many stories detailed in this particular chronicle she had read — one stated that the younger Clegane had fought his brother and strangled him to death. She had though it ridiculous of course, but now, with the strength his body clearly held, Sansa wondered if it was indeed true. 

 

It struck her only then how odd it was that he had not just thrown her over his shoulder in the heat of battle and rode off with her. Sandor Clegane was certainly strong enough to do so, and there was nothing in his culture that forbade such things. A man who lorded such physical power over others didn’t need to ask a young lady like Sansa to come with him — yet he had. There was a certain kindness to the act that Sansa had not considered before. It was hard for her to understand how a man could be so mean, spiteful and murderous on the one side, then so gentle with her on the other.

 

He must have noticed her staring at him, for Clegane motioned she come to him. Sansa didn’t resist, for she had been taught to do as she was told — even if sometimes she was stubborn about it. Still on his knees, he rose to his full height, which meant that he came up to right at her eye line — giving Sansa a rather intimate view of his scars. They looked painful, even horrifically so. 

 

_ ‘He must have suffered such imaginable pain.’  _ She thought, feeling empathy for him for the first time.

 

A few years ago in Winterfell a kitchen maid had burned her arms with oil very badly and they had looked similar to what she saw now. The poor thing was in pain for months — so Sansa could only imagine what he must have gone through. Even if it seemed to have been many years ago.

 

Taking his wet tunic, Clegane moved it over her face. It was only when he pulled it back did she realize that she was covered with blood too. Sansa gasped, suddenly feeling panic rise in her body. But he calmly continued, cleaning up the rest of her face and this seemed to relax her. Once he was happy with his work, the Hound handed over his tunic to her, then walked the fair bit of field to recover his sword. Sansa could see it was not just her face but her arms, neck and pants that had blood on them. She went quickly to cleaning the muck and gunk from herself.

 

By the time he returned to her, Sansa had cleaned the blood from his tunic so that it was certainly cleaner than when she had approached him earlier in the day. Sheathing his sword, the Lord of the West put the wet garment back on, though it did little to hide his body from her. 

 

Then he spoke, “What did he look like?”

 

Confused Sansa could only answer with a question. “Who?”

 

“The man who murdered your brother. What did he look like?”

 

Sansa didn’t know what to do with this question, couldn’t understand why he would want to know something like that — or make her relive what was surely the most horrible moment in her life. 

 

But the words came tumbling out. “His hair was long, blonde and matted. About as tall as me, with squinty brown eyes, two teeth missing in the front and a scar on his left cheek.”

 

Hearing herself it could have been just about any Westerman, but Clegane nodded thoughtfully as if she had given him enough information.

 

The sound of horses made her turn, and as she was about to scream she felt Clegane’s hand on her shoulder. “They’re ok little bird.” 

 

They were his men, she could recognize some of their faces — especially the one who had her brother’s corpse wrapped and tied to the back of his horse. Clegane went to greet the men, the one with her brother dismounting and hugging the big man. They spoke a few moments then both looked over at Sansa. As abruptly as the meeting started it ended, and the Lord of the West made his way back to her.

 

“Let’s get you back to Winterfell wee lady Stark.” He said, walking her over to his horse and hoisting her atop it once more. Part of her was happy go back to the place she knew, where it was safe. Part of her was scared, knowing that Robb’s death would change her family forever.

 

They rode the rest of the way in silence, together with what was left of both her father’s and Clegane’s men. Entering the walls of the holdfast, Sansa felt her entire body relax — it only served to announce every ache and pain she felt from the whole experience. When she saw her mother, Sansa thought she would be moved to tears — but she wasn’t. She’d shed all she had already. Clegane gripped her arms and lowered her down to the ground of the courtyard. It was a mess there too, soldiers and knights running around and preparing themselves for battle.

 

Catelyn Stark gripped Sansa’s face, tears in her eyes, and pulled her in close. “You’re alive, my daughter!” 

 

Sansa hugged her, enjoyed breathing in her scent and feeling her warmth. It was the most comforting thing she could ever think of and she didn’t want to let go.

 

It was only when the Westermen presented her mother with Robb’s body, that Sansa truly felt the sorrow in her soul.

 

“My son! My boy!” Sansa’s mother wailed and threw herself atop the body of her son, in the muck and the dirt of the courtyard. It was the most painful cry Sansa had ever heard, and it made her feel helpless. She could not comprehend the loss of a child, nor did she want to. The loss of her brother was already far too painful.

 

Turning away from the whole scene, for it was too difficult for her to digest in this moment, Sansa saw the Hound’s eyes upon her. It was as if they had never left her when he lowered her to the ground. She couldn’t say what he was thinking, for his stare held emotions she could not fathom. The only thing she knew they shared was pain. They locked eyes only briefly before he turned his horse around and left the castle with his men. Sansa watched them ride off, not knowing what they would do now.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

It was before dawn when Sansa was awoken by the ringing of the castle’s bells, indicating friendly riders approaching. Knowing deep down it was the Westermen, Sansa bolted out of her room and downstairs to the courtyard. She didn’t need to put on clothes, for she had fallen asleep in the ones she came in — not caring to bathe or change. 

 

Rodrik Cassel was there already, but Sansa was among the first of her family to arrive and receive them. There was only a glimmer of dawn peeking over the horizon, enough light with the torches to see that Clegane’s men had indeed arrived. They wore armor this time, this light leather armor that the Westermen used when at war. Sansa also noticed they were bloodied and worn. Several moments passed before the Hound emerged from the multitude of men, atop his stallion as she had last seen him. He was different though. He wore no armor for one, not even a tunic. The Lord of the West was bare chested wearing only his kilt, sword and his boots. His face still held streaks of the blue face paint they used when they fought — it made him look scarier than he already did.

 

There was silence as Sansa and the Hound stared at one another, his grey eyes wild with the high of battle. Her heart began to flutter seeing him in such a way atop his stallion, gave the pit of her stomach a warmth she hadn’t felt before. He didn’t seem injured, though given how covered in blood and dirt as he was it was hard to say. Turning to a saddle bag, Clegane fumbled with the laces. By this time her mother, brothers and Maester Luwin had joined the small group of Northerners in the courtyard. 

 

Finally getting the laces free, the Lord of the West tossed something large and round toward her. Sansa watched it roll before stopping neatly at her feet. There was no doubt that she knew the face staring back at her, though she could see he’d taken a substantial beating since she’d seen him last. Her mother gasped as Sansa would have done, had she not lived through what she had. In all honesty it filled her with relief and fed her need for revenge. 

 

She was thankful to him, for he had done what he could to chase the demons away.

 

Clegane’s eyes were only for her. When Sansa did finally meet them again she nodded her head, confirming he had found the right one. Only then did she see a grin spread across his face. Whistling loudly he turned his horse and the large group of men left, a cloud of dirt where they had once been.

 

“Why would he do something like that? She’s but a girl!” Sansa could hear her mother asking Rodrik. 

 

“He’s asking your daughter for forgiveness my Lady. He feels he owes her this for something he’s done.” He answered. 

 

Sansa listened in even more. “For a Westerner to ride into battle with nothing but his sword and his wits, shows that he would give his life to set things right with her. It’s the deepest and most devout form of penitence a Westerman can give.” Rodrik replied. “It’s incredibly rare given their dispositions.”

 

“A head is hardly a way to ask for forgiveness.” Catelyn Stark said hottily.

 

That’s when Sansa cut in. “That’s the man who killed Robb. I saw it with my own eyes, and I’m glad he’s dead.”

 

Turning on her heel, Sansa made her way back to her room. Nothing would be able to heal the hole in her heart that Robb’s death would leave. But at least she could feel a sense of justice and peace. Sandor Clegane had known that instinctively and had exacted the kind of revenge she had craved. While he might not be a lord in the sense of her father, or a knight in the sense of her stories — she realized in this moment that he was something different, something real. Her Septa had often told her no man was perfect, and in his case that was certainly true. But he didn’t need to be. He had protected her, looked after her and upheld his unspoken word. And for that, Sansa felt that had forged a bond that only death could bring asunder. 


	4. By the Grace of the Old Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War has come to Winterfell and Sansa has chosen to fight in her own way. Inevitably she will once again meet the Lord of the West.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a hugely tedious chapter, but I'm so happy to get through it.
> 
> Teakturn has been such a great Beta for me. Questioning paragraphs, making some great editorial decisions and above all keeping me motivated to finish. A huge thanks!
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> All the Gaelic parts are google translate ;-)

# Chapter 4: By the Grace of the Old Gods

 

Sansa hummed to herself, placing the finishing touches on her gown for this evening. It was by far the most beautiful garment she had ever sewed for herself or anyone else, and there was a particular pride that came with that.

 

 _‘Mother certainly won’t approve_.’ She grinned devilishly to herself.

 

The dress was the color of spring grass, a soft green that matched her skin tone and made the auburn color of her hair all the more eye catching. It was her homage to the beautiful rolling hills of the West. Though she had not been there many times over the years, it had always been the stretches of grass that went as far as the eye could see that she had loved the most. If this color wouldn’t draw the Lord of the West’s eye to her, then she had seen to it that other things certainly would.

 

Blushing to herself, Sansa found it difficult to fight her less than virginal thoughts about Sandor Clegane. These thoughts had certainly influenced the pattern she had chosen for her dress. It would not follow the typical northern fashion of a high collar and neckline, or sleeves that would come down to her elbows. For the Midsummer’s Eve Festival, Sansa had chosen a dress that embodied the Southern style, using a mixture of both sheer and opaque silk to accentuate different parts of her body. Of course it would be more ‘revealing’ than most of the gowns tonight, but Sansa reminded herself that the entire point of the festival was to both celebrate the summer and to attract a number of amenable suitors to your side — certainly this dress would fulfill both these requirements.

 

A grin spread across her face as she admired her work. The current fashion of young women in the North was a boat neckline that sat very high on the shoulders. It was nice of course, but she wanted to make a statement, show those in attendance that she had no intention of staying in her native North if she could help it. So she decided on an off the shoulder gown, the sheer material of her sleeves was soft and airy coming playfully over the top of her bodice and ending in beautiful butterfly off the shoulder sleeve.  

 

Sansa had taken measures to ensure that her corset covered her modesty properly, but still left enough of her womanly curves for a man’s eyes to feast upon. That didn’t mean her mother would approve of the garment. Even if corsets were all the rage in the Southern courts, they were far from known up here. She truly loved the look of the gown for the synching of her waist had the effect of making her look taller than she was, while making it look as through her hips were wider than they were. At nineteen her hips were not as womanly as she would have liked them to be, but she had built her dress to fix that. The skirt of her gown flared out, the silk swishing effortlessly around her and flaring out beautifully should she be twirled during a dance.

 

Sansa’s brow furrowed a moment, she couldn’t be sure if Sandor was much of a dancer. Judging by what she had seen of his men, probably not. _‘Well I’ll do my best with him._ ’ She decided.

 

For the final bit of her gown, Sansa had just finished attaching some beautiful silk flowers to her bodice — yellow with a hint of black. They were his clan colors, of course she knew that, Sansa hoped only that it wasn’t too obvious to her family. Stepping back she could not deny that she would look all of a woman tonight, ready to choose her destiny. She hoped only that Sandor would accept her interest.

 

Suddenly her door burst open and a very mischievous Arya stepped through it, quietly shutting the heavy piece of wood behind her. It was clear she had put something together and was eager to share it with Sansa. Knowing her younger sister well, Sansa merely smiled at her and continued sewing the last bits of her gown.

 

“Mother will have a fit!” Arya exclaimed, bouncing about the room and landing on Sansa’s bed, a self-satisfied toothy grin on her face.

 

Waiting a beat, Sansa replied in the most unconcerned tone she possibly could, “Why whatever do you mean?”

 

She would not simply tell her sister what she wanted to know, but was of the mind that Arya would have to work at getting all of the juicy bits of the story out -- or walk away empty handed.

 

“My beautiful, perfect sister,” Arya paused after each word purposefully, fixing Sansa with a mock disappointed look, “to think that our mother’s favorite daughter...”

 

Sansa cut her off, allowing the shock and annoyance she felt at the words Arya was using to bleed through her mask of indifference. “That’s not true!”

 

Arya merely brushed off her comment, her cheeky roguish grin only growing, “To think that you would pick the Westerman as the man to court you.” She paused as if trying to find the right expression to use, but finally settled on, “Well it’s just pure madness.”

 

Sansa could see her sister liked the chaos her choice of consort would bring. And if she had to be honest with herself, she kind of liked it too. He was so rugged and unrefined that it gave her a warm sensuous feeling in her gut.

 

“And what makes you think I’ve decided on him?” Sansa raised an eyebrow and looked her younger sister in the eye. They shared a moment, and Sansa cracked a sheepish grin despite herself.

 

Sitting up on Sansa’s bed, Arya spoke. “It’s perhaps less a question of you choosing him, but rather him choosing you.”

 

Sansa held her breath, but continued to work on her dress as if everything was calm. Even though her heart was beating almost literally out of her chest.

 

“He rode in with his men not more than an hour ago. His beard was trimmed, which I must admit I found strange. His hair was cut and pulled back, his horse’s coat shone with all the colors of the rainbow that a black stallion’s can. And though I know his kind are given to peculiar manners of dress, he wore something out of character about his neck.”

 

Of course her ears perked up at Arya’s admission, Sansa wanted to know everything about Sandor Clegane. How he had looked, what he was wearing, if he had a glint in his hypnotic grey eyes or not. But she contained her curiosities and did her best to listen.

 

“He wore a charm about his neck.” Arya finally said after a few moments had passed in a bid to further build the suspense. “A silver chain with a locket and some finely knotted sage root around it. Clearly your work.”

 

At this Sansa could no longer hold up her poorly put on charade of indifference. Stopping everything she was doing, Sansa smiled freely. “You could see it from where you stood?”

 

Arya jumped off her bed and came closer to Sansa, “I could see it from the roof of the guard tower with Bran, though I said not a word to him.”

 

Seizing her sister with desperate hands, Sansa held her close. “You mussent tell a soul. Promise me!”

 

“I won’t.” Arya said but her eyes held a self-satisfied glint, “But you must promise to host me there. I hear they teach their women to fight with swords and their own hands. It’s supposed to be less restrictive than here...oh sister….”

 

Sansa could see Arya’s mind racing with the thoughts of what could be. In some way they were not far from her own, wishing for a life different from where they had grown up and the freedom that came with it.

 

At this point the maid knocked on her door bringing a large tub with her. She would need to bathe before the night, and she knew her mother would be too busy with the arrangements to help her into her dress.

 

“Come back later and help me get into my gown, then we can talk about it.” Sansa promised, hoping her sister would not let on anything with the maid in the room.

 

Nodding, Arya quickly left her chambers. _‘He still wears it._ ’ Sansa swooned to herself, her hand resting on her quickly beating heart.

 

It was true, Sansa had indeed made the Lord of the West a charm, but she had not intended he wear it all these years. Thinking back on that time when she had made it for him hardly brought a smile to her face. This time had been a trying for both the North and the West— and she had called upon the Old God’s to save and watch over him, for he had indeed been in such dire need of saving.

 

* * *

 

 

War had come to the North and not even Sansa or her family could be saved from its horrors. They rationed their food, called their bannermen and watched as the red and gold of the Lannisters pushed the grey and black of the Starks back. Robb’s death had been the final spark to ignite the tinder that had already been smouldering between her father and Casterly Rock. The attack on their camp had been planned, this much had been told to her. Only the Lannisters had hoped to catch and kill her father unawars, Robb had merely been an afterthought.

 

Now the battles had come to their doorstep. Sansa could hear the clashes rage from the castle, worried that the Lannisters might push them back within the ancient walls of Winterfell.

 

She feared the consequences of losing.

 

Her father tried to keep a positive spin on the situation, recounting the small successes and feats of bravery of both his men and those of Lord Clegane’s. But it was obvious her father was grasping at any bit of hope he could. He was different, a dark cloud hung over him in a way Sansa had never seen before. It was the lines that formed around a face she hadn't realized was aging from the demands of battle that made her realize every skirmish her father had against the Lannisters brought the North one step closer to defeat.

 

They could always fall back on the winter, count on the freezing temperatures and raging storms to drive their foes from their lands — but summer had only just begun. Her father’s forces would have to wait at least six months for winter to begin, then even longer before the invading forces began to feel the effects of illness and starvation.

 

It was too long to wait.

 

Constant worry had worn on Sansa’s nerves as well. Her mother did what she could to keep the family strong, but now even the youngest of her siblings could not deny that the world they had known was changing.

 

They would need a lucky break if they were to end this war, and Sansa prayed it would come from their alliance with the West. For as much as she had looked for him, and even hoped to see him, Sansa had not encountered Sandor Clegane since he had saved her in the forest. She knew it was improper to want to see him, for he was much older than her and foreign — yet she found herself wondering how he was.

 

As for herself, it had taken several months for the nightmares to stop. Often Sansa had woken up in a cold sweat in the night, her heart pounding, her mind fearful of capture, rape and torture. Repeatedly she would see Robb dying in her dreams, watch the life leave his eyes, see his body go limp, feel his lack of warmth — and she would wake up in tears. In these moments, when she felt most alone, she did not go to her mother or sister for help — for they could not understand her feelings of guilt and pain. The only person in this world who truly knew what she was going through was the Lord of the West. So it was when her nights were the darkest, and her tears would no longer fall that she would allow thoughts about the Lord of the West to come into her subconsciousness.

 

It was subtle at first, he might ride in on his impressive black stallion and chase away the evil. Sometimes he would take her on his horse and bring her home — sometimes he wouldn’t. More recently she had begun to dream of him taking her to his castle in the West. Keeping her safe in his arms, holding her close when she felt sad. It was in these moments where she would distinctly remember his spicy scent, reminisce about how good it felt to pull her cheek against his strong, sturdy body. They would lay together then, the warmth of their bodies and the beating of their hearts the only thing that would keep the darkness away.

 

It made her miss him.

 

For what she lacked in visual and physical contact with the Lord of the West, the stories that made their way back to Winterfell of his courageousness in battle had filled Sansa’s imagination further, building him into a hero worthy of a song. True, he was not the prince that her stories promised, nor was he the picture of a gallant knight painted by the words of a silver tongued bard.

 

Sandor Clegane was a man, albeit bigger than most, who had come from a far away land and had built his place in the world not on name or beauty, but on merit and pure will. It was said that he fought with a ferociousness of a hundred men. That his strength was unparalleled by any known beast. That he spit in the face of the Stranger for death itself was too afraid of the mighty Lord of the West to claim him. There was not a fighter in the North that did not seem to respect Clegane. Sansa overheard many a foot soldier and a commander speak with a begrudging fondness for the man. Sansa supposed it was because he lead by example, not staying in a comfortable tent or fortress while his men wallowed in the mud of a war camp. It seemed right to Sansa on the one hand, but made her heart feel heavy with concern on the other.

 

Sandor’s legend in the North was rapidly growing, yet Sansa couldn’t help but fear for his life. He was a man, flesh and blood like any other.  

 

It was unbearable to sit back in the castle and do nothing. A voice deep inside Sansa had urged her to do something. For as much as she hung on the words of her father’s commanders, and hugged her father tightly when he came back tired and weary from the battle field, Sansa could not fight the oppressive feeling that nothing seemed to be working against their foes. As more and more men came spilling into the makeshift medical tents they had put up in the courtyard of Winterfell, Sansa made the choice to help them as much as she could. What she did not have in strength and fighting technique, she made up for in other ways.

 

Sadly enough, it was within the walls of Winterfell where Sansa had really experienced war first hand -- through the eyes of the wounded. Her mother had been resistant to her desire to help Maester Luwin of course, said that it wasn’t proper for a young lady to mingle amongst the soldiers.

 

But they needed her and she needed to be with them.

 

Donning a white apron and coat over her normal dress, she worked hard by the side of Maester Luwin day-in and day-out, helping him prepare medications, treat the wounded and save lives. As much as the Lord of the West took from this world, she found it her place to give back what she could to those fighting this terrible war. Ironically it was through this catharsis that she truly found the strength to chase her demons away — for the care of these men so utterly consumed her that she had no time to think of her own woes. She didn’t even have time to think of what other normal fifteen year olds might.

 

The walls of her home, which had always been so full of joy and happiness, turned into a place of pain and sorrow. The moans of men in varying stages of death permeated the air, the stench of fear and rot wafted through the courtyard heavy in the wind. Sansa had thought the things she would have to do would haunt her dreams, make her sick to her stomach, frighten her — but they had not.

 

They had made her more determined to fight.

 

Sansa learned all that she could about fighting infection, easing pain, and performing surgeries with the hopes of saving lives. Maester Luwin had been grateful and so too had the men of the both the North and the West. Some had died of course, her heart was continually battered and bruised by the speed with which they seemed to pass on. Those she could help were so grateful to her, that it seemed almost criminal to not be out there fighting alongside them.

 

They were good people caught up in the quarrels of high lords.

 

Sansa, in her own right, had done much to deserve the praise of the soldiers. Apparently stories of her compassion, skill and beauty had reached the frontlines. She knew this because as men were brought back to the castle and looked upon her — they would call her by her nickname. The Westerners began to call her the “Red Wolf”, “Madadh-allaidh Ruadh” in their language. It was told to her that wolves were exceedingly rare in the West. However those that did exist were smaller than in the North. Instead of being grey these western wolves were red so as to blend in with the grass and dirt. To see one was so uncommon, as she had heard, that it was considered a good omen — as was it to see her when a soldier was sick or wounded.

 

At first Sansa had not known what to make of her new found fame. The way they would look at her when she walked through the camp, the smiles she would receive when she came to a man’s bedside, the emotional embraces given to her by the soldiers were an outpouring of emotion she was not at all accustomed to. Slowly she learned that it was a good thing to be known and loved by those fighting for her family. She would be the Lady Stark someday, Robb’s death having thrown the line of succession into chaos — Sansa knew she would need their love and support in the future.

 

Even amongst the Westermen she had become popular. They had taught her some words and phrases in their native Gaelic tongue. They were dark phrases, all having to do with death and sickness, but they were useful all the same. Many of these men did not speak the Common Tongue at all, so anything she could learn to communicate with them was helpful.

 

On this morning, the rain started to fall before dawn and Sansa felt it a bad omen. She didn’t take herself to be particularly superstitious in the sense of Old Nan or many of the older northern women, but there was no shaking this feeling of foreboding. Lifting up her skirts a bit and using a belt to secure them, Sansa raised her hemline off the ground so as to not be bogged down by the muck and the clay that would surely collect in the wet courtyard of Winterfell. Tying up her hair and pulling it back out of her face, Sansa could tell she was jittery as her fingers struggled to tie a simple knot.

 

 _‘Gods help us.’_ Was the only thought that kept running through her mind. Sansa had long since left the Seven behind, putting her faith in her father’s gods. For their battle was in the North, where the Old Gods were strongest. It would be their grace alone that her father’s forces would pull through.

 

The sounds of horses, men and weapons clashing began much earlier than usual, before first light. It was scary to think how close they were to the castle, only just in the small valley below. As such, the valley funneled the loud crashing and screams of man and beast up toward Winterfell, giving every soul in the castle the feeling they were right in the middle of the battlefield.

 

 _‘It must be father’s last push.’_ Sansa realized, knowing that if they lost there was no more territory to retreat to. She would not leave her home, nor would she be held captive in it.

 

Her macabre thoughts giving her a heightened sense of unease and slight nausea, Sansa continued about her daily chores. It was important to ensure the dead men were cleared out and the cots freed for those who would surely come to them near death. It didn’t take long for injured men to trickle in of course, the rain pounding down all the harder, the sky as dark as night. They were fighting for Winterfell, fighting for their lives. The die had been cast, it was now just a matter of time to see what would come out of it.

 

A trickle of wounded soon became a steady flow, as the empty beds around the courtyard filled up. Sansa was doing her best to determine which were the most likely to survive and trying to treat them first — it was the part of her job she liked the least. While Maester Luwin attended to the most complicated and critically wounded men, Sansa was ordering the helper boys around. Beds needed to be cleaned and cleared, fresh towels and supplies restocked in the different tents, and water brought from the well. She couldn’t help but wonder how long the battle had been going on, for the number of casualties filling the courtyard would have indicated a battle of several hours -- or one of a high intensity.

 

 _‘Surely this isn’t the end.’_ Her inner voice nervous and fearful of what the day would bring.

 

A huge commotion in the courtyard startled Sansa from her thoughts. Her first notion was that the Lannisters had broken through the gate, bringing the war right into her home. Relief crept over her when she realized it was a number of Westermen carrying a gravely wounded man. It wasn’t until she heard the man’s deep wail of pain and saw the difficulty with which the men brought him into the courtyard, that she realized it was the Lord of the West.

 

Sandor’s screams were a horrific mix of fear and anger, his huge body struggling against four grown men. He fought as if he wanted to get back out there on the battlefield, thrashing and clawing with a strength so resolute he was nearly overpowering them -- even in this state.

 

Sansa was soaked to the bone, the rain pelting her body, her hair sticking to her face. Even through the chaos that was unfolding in the courtyard it wasn’t difficult for her to see that Sandor was severely injured. His men had done their best to wrap his leg tightly, but whatever they had used was so soaked through with blood. Quickly Sansa’s mind filled with the possibilities and consequences of such an injury, alarm raced through her body, her hair stood on end. She would need to act swiftly if she was going to save his life, and his leg.

 

“Over here!” Sansa’s voice boomed over the commotion and his men turned their eyes to her. “An-seo!” She repeated in their language and that seemed to move them to action.

 

There was an empty tent where she could have some space, and by the way he was fighting they were going to need it. The monster of a man was struggling and writhing against his brothers, thrashing in their arms, breaking one of the men’s noses, and kicking another one squarely in the gut. The Westermen dragged Sandor into a free tent and threw him on the wooden table there. Amidst the tumult Sansa was able to snake her way to the end of the table in order to get a better look at what had happened to him.

 

“Hold him down!” She demanded in a voice so powerful she almost couldn't believe it had come from her lips. As if the men weren’t already struggling enough to keep control of their leader, she could see the desperation on their faces -- all weary and exhausted from battle. Grabbing two additional stable hands, Sansa motioned they restrain the Lord of the West holding him down with all their might.

 

Satisfied he was secured, Sansa began to cut away the crude bandaging around his upper left thigh. There was an enormous gash on the inner part of his leg starting at the knee and going up well into his kilt. Knowing that the Lannister men often covered their swords in feces and poisons to ensure any cut could turn septic, Sansa felt a jolt of fear run through her body. Steeling herself for what she would see, Sansa pushed the Lord of the West’s blood stained kilt high over his left thigh. She was shaking, her heartbeat drowning out all of the other sounds inside the tent. The gash went up the leg but stopped several inches from his hip, which meant she had a chance to stop the bleeding.

 

Grabbing the belt from about her waist she managed to get it around his huge thigh. Gritting her teeth and using all the might her little body could, she pulled the belt as hard and as tight as she was capable of doing. Sandor’s screaming rang through the tent, filling her with a sorrow she had not felt since she watched Robb die in her arms. A tear trickled down her cheek as she fought against his kicking in an effort to tie the belt off. Content that she had been able to synch the belt and keep it steady there, Sansa turned and grabbed some towels from a small makeshift shelf.

 

“You.” She pointed to one of the men who had come in with Sandor, “Hold this here.”

 

Whether he understood her or not mattered little, she communicated with her hands so it was clear what needed to be done. She then made her way to the top of table, gripping Sandor’s thrashing head with both hands and moving him so he could see her. The scarred side of his face was oddly smooth in comparison to the stubbly bearded side, and she felt it strange that of all the things she could have been thinking in that moment that the beauty of his scars was what came to the surface.

 

“I’m not going to let you die.” She said to him, it was a whisper considering the noise of the battle and the courtyard, but it was filled with all the intensity of the adrenaline pumping through her body.

 

He had not noticed her before this moment, as confused and in pain as he was upon being brought to the castle. Sansa knew this without a doubt because his steel grey eyes betrayed his surprise. Sandor’s pupils dilated a moment, and she knew it to be a sign of relief, possibly even trust. It was as if she had befriended a wild beast, such was the thrill of the stare the Lord of the West had for her. They gazed at each other, her blue eyes feeding his grey eyes with hope. A silence and a calm washed over the once irate struggling man. Sansa could have sworn his lips were pulling into a grin, before his strength left him and he passed out.

 

A panic went through the room, because his men thought he was dead. Sansa knew better, quickly putting her fingers to this throat — he was alive, but only just.

 

“Get Maester Luwin.” She ordered one of the stable hands.

 

Then, pushing back his kilt as much as she could whilst protecting his modesty, Sansa gingerly lifted the towel that was still being pressed tightly to Sandor’s wound. She had seen many such injuries in the last months, she knew the probability of him losing his leg was higher than dying — but what was the Lord of the West if he was not in top fighting condition? Saying a short prayer to the Old Gods for guidance and for the strength to persevere, Sansa took a moment to collect herself.

 

She had never felt ill when she had looked at wounds, which had surprised everyone including her. But this time was different. Sansa had to fight the bile that rose in her throat at the thought of seeing Clegane in such a mess. She had to swallow the fear that she might not be able to fix him. A hand quickly grabbed her shoulder turning her head, it was Lord Clegane’s captain — the man who had taken Robb’s body from the woods not more than a year before. There was concern written all over his face, and mistrust too. The healing ways of Maester Luwin were different from those of their homeland, so it was no surprise that it was difficult for the Westermen to trust a foreigner with the care of somebody as important as their leader.  

 

Clegane’s second in command was a good looking younger man, one who could have popped right out of a story book and whisked away a young maiden. He was tall, his hair long and blonde, his face fair with not even a beard though he was old enough to grow one. Sansa thought him boyish at best. A far cry from his roguish and rugged leige lord.

 

“Bidh mi a ’coimhead as a dhèidh.” She said to the captain, which meant, “I care for him.” She wanted more than anything to tell the young man in a kilt of similar tartan to his Lord’s that she would do Sandor no ill will, that she wanted the Lord of the West to live as much as he did. Her words surprised the man and he released her shoulder, allowing Sansa to work freely.

 

What met Sansa’s eyes made her fight back her gag reflex. The gash in his leg was large, approximately ten inches and rather deep. One of the first things she had learned in her rather odd apprenticeship to Maester Luwin was the deeper the wound the less likely it would be that they could save the limb. If they would have to take it, Sandor wouldn’t be able to ride again muchless fight. A tremor went through her hand and she knew she would not be able to keep herself together much longer.

 

Luckily, before she could continue, Maester Luwin’s voice filled the tent, “For the love of the Seven.” He cursed. Sansa’s eyes met his and she could not hide the fear that was there.

 

“You did well my Lady.” The Maester said while she moved out of the way so he could examine Clegane closer. There was a tense moment in which the Westermen seemed uncertain as to whether it was ok for the Maester to be so close to Sandor, but Sansa quickly diffused the situation -- nodding to Sandor’s protective second in command.

 

Pulling his magnifying glasses out of his pocket and motioning she bring a lit candle with a mirrored back closer, he threw off Sandor’s kilt and inspected the wound more closely. Sansa immediately turned her head, doing her best to keep the candle steady for the Maester. Just because they were crammed together in this horrid tent, under these less than ideal conditions, didn’t mean that she would throw her modesty to the wind.

 

Her heart was beating out of her chest with anticipation as to what the old Maester would say.

 

After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke. “Our Lord Clegane is a lucky man, the gods have seen it fit he keep his manhood. But it was close.” Maester Luwin said, as if it were an afterthought. Sansa released a breath she didn’t know she was holding.  

 

 _‘Why would such an intimate detail as this give me relief?’_ She wondered, fighting the shaking of her tired arm so as to keep the light steady for the examination.

 

A few tense moments passed, “The tongs my Lady.”

 

Reaching over to the table on the other side, Sansa gently slid Maester Luwin the tongs while still keeping her eyes averted from the Lord of the West. Of course modesty was foremost on her mind, but even more than that she didn’t know if she could truly bare to see if the sword had severed his bone. It would be embarrassing to feel sick at such a sight in front of these men, so she was happy to use modesty as a cover.

 

She’d never felt so sick in all her life, and she never had needed to wait so long before her Maester issued his diagnosis and plan of action. It felt as though she might faint, as all the air in the room seemed to vanish, leaving her silently gasping.

 

“Sansa come take a look at this.” The Maester said, with no huge amount of concern in his voice.

 

Ensuring her eyes looked only on the inner part of Clegane’s thigh, she slowly found the courage to bring her face as close to his wound as Maester Luwin’s. The huge gash on Sandor’s leg was spread open, parts had been cleaned away by the Maester, and you could quite literally see everything his leg contained except the bone.

 

That was the first good sign.

 

Pointing to a blue coral like structure he said, “This is how close he came to losing his leg. Had this been broken, we would need to take it.”

 

Sansa nodded, obviously relieved.

 

“This,” The Maester continued as if he were teaching an anatomy class at the Citadel, “Is how close he came to death. It was merely nicked, not severed. You did well to stop the bleeding my Lady. He should thank you for saving his life.”

 

A tear ran down her cheek at the very thought of what that meant. “If I could ask you to apply the proper ointments and sew him up, we’ll leave the rest to the gods.”

 

Nodding, Sansa went to work. They had learned many things about the human body over the last months of this war. As such, Sansa could have almost forged her medical chain at the Citadel herself. Smiling to herself at the good outcome, she made quick work of Sandor’s wound — making sure his modesty was covered as she did so. Sansa then instructed his men to clean him and take him to the east tower so he could be close to her and properly cared for. Of course it was breaking with tradition to have the Lord of the West stay in this tower, so close to her. But she cared little for tradition at the moment, wanting only to ensure he was looked after.

 

The rain had gone and the sun was high in the sky when she emerged from the medical tent, covered to her elbows in Sandor’s blood and at her wit’s end. She had only just taken a breath when she heard the bells in the castle ringing — not announcing foreign riders or even those of her father — but victory. She had to listen twice just to ensure that she had heard it correctly. After all that had happened, all that they had done — the impossible had been made possible.

 

“My Lady.” She heard the voice of Rodrik Cassel calling her from atop his horse. “So did that crazy bastard make it?”

 

She was taken aback by his use of language around her, but reminded herself that war made men do crazy things and in so doing speak such words to a lady.

 

“Why whoever do you mean Ser Rodrik?” Sansa answered, her hand blocking the sun from her eyes and leaving a streak of red across her forehead.

 

“The Lord Clegane. He’s the craziest man I’ve ever seen on a horse -- and the luckiest. If he hadn’t charged Lord Tywin when he did and cut him down for all to see, we’d still be out there battling for the North my Lady.” Ser Rodrik answered. His face became more serious then, “Let’s just hope that Lord Tywin’s final defense won’t put Clegane into an early grave.”

 

It filled her with a certain sense of pride to know that Sandor had taken it upon himself to end the war. If Lord Tywin had been anything, it had been conniving and cut throat. There was no doubt in her mind that the world would be a better place without him, but she feared what the final cost of that would be.

 

Sansa put on a brave face. “If he survives the fever Ser Rodrik, he’ll live and he may even fight another day.” She smiled as best she could, hoping her positivity would have some effect on Lord Clegane’s outcome. “And what of father?”

 

“Ah, he’s gone to chase the Lannisters back to the South, and take some land for himself and the Westerners in return. I fear he will not return soon. I am to meet him once we get reinforcements from the Umbers.”

 

Sansa nodded in understanding, though this victory seemed so empty to her without knowing her father was ok. She would have done almost anything to see him. Just to hold him in her arms and to confirm with her own eyes that he was fine would have been enough to please her.

 

If there was one thing the war had given Sansa, it had been a better sense of herself. It had gifted her an inner strength and resilience that she could have never imagined she possessed. Struggle, pain, and hardship had changed her trajectory as a person and she liked it. Sandor possessed all of these elements long before she had, and this made her feel a kinship with him -- though they had not spoken to each other since that fateful day in the woods. She knew then and there that she would do everything in her power to protect him, as he had her. Even if it meant begging the Old Gods herself.

 

* * *

 

 

Having taken it upon herself to be his primary caregiver, Sansa was pleased that Sandor’s room was just down the hall from her own. Of course the handmaidens kept a watchful eye that nothing less than chaste was going on between her and the Lord of the West, but they really didn’t need to. Sandor’s condition was poor. He had not woken up since he had been brought to the castle, and that had been a week ago. There had been no other choice than to give him milk of the poppy to ease his pain and keep him sedated. His fever had risen so high that Sansa feared it would take him.

 

Even bedridden, the Lord of the West was a fighter.

 

It had not been an easy couple of days for her, sitting sentinel by his bedside. The mixture of the milk of the poppy and his fever meant he spoke in his half-sleep, uttered things she could not understand and made noises that filled in the blanks. Sandor’s life had been one of violence and pain, the scars that adorned his body were physical proof of that -- his screams at night proof of the mental toll such a life left on a man.

 

Through the jumble of things he had murmured or screamed over the days he had spent fighting infection, one name stood out in particular. That of his brother Gregor. Having read the Maester’s account of Clegane family life she would have thought his brother’s name would have been spoken with more rage or anger, even in the discombobulation of his half sleep. Instead it had surprised her how a man of such power and strength could cry out a name with such fear in his voice. The crackling of his vocal chords, the quiver of his lip the utter horror when he uttered the word “teine” which she knew to be fire.

 

It hadn’t taken long for Sansa to put together what had happened between them, to understand that Gregor had been responsible for the burns on Sandor’s face. It gave her new context to the Maester’s account, which had depicted the Lord of the West as more beast than man, committing familicide without a second thought or good provocation.

 

“If only they knew.” Sansa whispered to him, using a cold, wet rag to wipe some sweat from Sandor’s brow.

 

Pulling the sheets down to his waist so he could cool off, Sansa smiled at the sight of her locket around his neck. Though she could not claim to be the most pious girl, in the early days of his fever she had fashioned an old northern charm to ward off the spirits who might come to claim him. For even if the Stranger was too afraid to take the mighty Lord of the West, that didn’t mean the Old Gods weren’t so inclined.

 

Sansa did as Old Nan had taught her. She took an oval shaped silver locked and filled it with fresh sage and lavender. It was said that this scent attracted good spirits and deterred evil ones. To make it even more pungent, Sansa had taken to weaving sage root around the outside body of the locket, using her dexterous fingers to tie small knots in a repeating design. This kind of minuscule root weaving took concentration, skill and time. Sansa wanted it to be so beautiful that no god in their right mind would pass up blessing the one who wore it. It was a work of art, but she hoped it would also be effective.

 

It was early morning, Sansa’s hair was a fright and she was still in her sleeping gown and robe. It had been her ritual to see Sandor first thing when she woke up, in the hopes that she might find him conscious and waiting for her. She took some small comfort in the fact that his condition seemed to have stabilized over the night, for his breathing was calmer and less labored than in the last seven days. Though she dare not admit to herself she was slowly losing faith that he would ever wake up, there was a certain monotony and sadness that came with seeing his condition unchanged for as long as she had. Wiping the last bit of sweat from his brow  and fluffing his pillow, Sansa left Sandor so she could dress for the day. She would then continue her daily routine of bringing him his broth and reading to him.

 

She had spent the last week doing this and her mother had begun to worry. But Sansa paid her no heed, she’d made herself a promise and was loath to break it.

 

Dressing quickly and not bothering to do more than brush the knots out of her hair, she checked to see if she looked presentable. Tucking one of her books under her arm, Sansa made her way to the kitchens where she picked up some beef broth. A feeling of disconnection with the world around her fell heavy about Sansa’s shoulders. While others smiled, laughed, joked -- rebuilt their lives after winning the war -- Sansa couldn’t help but feel that winning did not give the glory her stories had promised. It left her with an empty, dark feeling of having given so much and gotten so little.

 

Yes the North was safe and the West would now expand its territories, but the cost has been so very high. Children without parents, women without husbands or lovers. The war would scar their people and their lands for a generation or more. And aside from that, Sansa wanted so very desperately for Sandor to know what he had done. She wanted him to know that without him, they may very well have been lost -- she wanted him to live.

 

Doing her best to contain her emotions, Sansa slinked from the kitchen back to the tower, trying her very best to not attract any attention. Not even thinking to knock, the young lady of Winterfell opened the door to Sandor’s room and was immediately aware that something was different than before. His bed was empty, and panic rose in her chest. Yet, before she had time to orient herself, Sansa heard a deep exhale coming from the corner, and a sound something akin to running water. Turning her head to the far corner of the room Sansa yelped at the sight that met her eyes. As bedridden as he had been only moments before, Clegane was now gingerly standing on his feet. One hand held him upright by pushing against the wall, the other was hidden from her view in front of him -- as he used the chamber pot.

 

The sound that came from her mouth was one of surprise and shock, if not complete horror at walking in on him in such a moment. She turned around quickly to give him privacy -- but in front of her was a vanity, its mirror giving her a full view of the man behind her.

 

His naked, well rounded bum was all she could really focus on as Sansa fought to close her eyes. A redness rose in her chest and cheeks. Even in this moment she could not deny she found his form rather comely. His back rippled with the peaks and valleys of well formed muscles funneling down toward his narrow waist. The cheeks of his bum were squeezed together in this moment, showing their sculpted shape all the more. Sansa held on to her bowl of broth for dear life, because she was sure what she was doing in his presence was not proper for a lady. But she was frozen in place, paralyzed by the shock of catching him not only standing but... _relieving_ himself.

 

Clearly her scream had been heard by a guard in the hall for Sandor’s young captain burst through the door, nearly causing Sansa to drop her bowl of broth yet again. Certainly some of it had now slopped onto her dress. She was looking at the captain, her face to the door her back to Sandor and she could see the look in the young man’s eye when he saw his friend up and awake. The young Westerman pushed past her, said something that sounded rather jovial in their language, then both men laughed deeply. She saw them embrace one another in the mirror and she closed her eyes for real this time, not wanting to embarrass herself by seeing Sandor’s manhood unbid.

 

Westermen were an emotional breed, she had seen that many times over, and this instance was no different. She could hear them pat each other on the backs tightly as they hugged, not caring for the state of undress Sandor was in. Sansa could even hear the young captain fight back a tear, as he sniffled loudly at the pure emotion of seeing his clan leader on his feet again. It was quite a feat if Sansa had anything to say about it. Given the nature of Sandor’s injury and the amount of time he had been in bed, it was surprising he could sit up much less balance himself enough to go relieve himself in the chamberpot. Now she was the one fighting back tears.

 

Sansa could hear the sheets moving and the distinct harsh sounds of Sandor exhaling as he battled the pain of moving his leg back into the bed. After waiting the appropriate amount of time Sansa turned to see him back in bed, listening intently to what his second in command had to say to him. He was sitting upright, the covers only pulled up to his waist. His hair was long and brushed his shoulders, his broad chest was bruised and bare -- but he looked to be in good spirits. As per usual their discussion was incredibly brief, Sandor’s second in command smiled at her as he left them alone in the room together -- closing the heavy wooden door behind him.

 

Clegane’s stare was so piercing. She hadn’t forgotten that from the day he had brought her the head of Robb’s killer, but that still didn’t mean she was ready for it again. It was as if he were not studying her like a normal man would, simply observing her on the surface. Rather it was more like he was reading her soul. He was looking deep inside of her where few others could. It was a disarming sort of stare punctuated by the beauty of his unapologetic grey eyes.

 

She needed to say something, otherwise they would just sit there and stare at one another forever. Sansa could feel her cheeks, yet again, fill with color. “I had not expected to see you up so quickly my Lord.” She began, “You truly possess a strength unparallelled by other men.”

 

He said nothing for the moment, content to look upon her with unabashed curiosity. Almost as if he were looking at her for the first time, or perhaps reacquainting himself with her look. It had been a year since he’d seen her last, and in that time she had grown up. Her father had often told her she’d turned into a young woman overnight. It made her wonder if Clegane had noticed too. Sansa turned an even brighter shade of red at the thought of what he might be searching for.

 

When the silence had stretched on so long that it had become nearly unbearable to her, he spoke. “To be delivered to the arms of the Red Wolf is to fight another day.”

 

She blushed even more intensely at his words, it seemed that word of her work had reached him in the field. Some of her deeds had been immortalized in song, she knew that for the wounded would often sing the parts they knew for her. This phrase was from the song. Sansa shifted her glance to the floor, feeling embarrassed under the intensity of his gaze.

 

Sansa felt the need to speak, so as to shift the focus away from her, otherwise she would die of embarrassment. “Fighting three of the most accomplished warriors in Westeros and killing Lord Tywin to win a war is no small feat my Lord. Certainly that is worthy of its own song.”

 

Their eyes met and Sansa felt a tension there she had not felt before. As if he were drawing her in with his eyes alone. He snorted, “You heard about that did you?”

 

By this point the more better question was, _‘Who hadn’t heard about it?’_ Ser Rodrik had given her the whitewashed version of what had happened on the hill, it was only when the soldiers came back and began to drink to their victory that the true story came out. The Lord of the West had seen a weakness in the left flank of the Lannister army and took advantage of it by racing his war horse through an opening. Some of his most loyal men had followed him, but they were no more than ten all together, rushing into the belly of the beast.

 

Sandor’s actions then could only be described as suicidal, for he stood on the back of his horse, road it right up to where Lord Tywin and his bodyguards were orchestrating their side of the battle and leapt off his horse like a wild man into the fray. Picking up a second sword which happened to be on the ground and engaged the bodyguards in a three on one  style of combat. These men were known to be some of the best warriors in Westeros, but they could not compare to Sandor’s fearlessness and skill. He cut the three men down, only to turn towards Lord Tywin and receive an upward swing of the older man’s sword meant to slice him in half from below.

 

It was said he moved just in time the sword making contact with his leg but missing his body. That would have been enough to stop most normal men in their tracks, but not the Lord of the West. He took the opportunity to spring to action -- advancing on the elder Lannister and relieving him of his head by crossing the two swords in front of him and pulling them to his sides. The rest of the story she knew, but to think he had done such a crazy thing surprised her.

 

“My Lord is both brave and suicidal.” She teased him gently, not sure how he would react.

 

Chuckling at her words his answer came quickly, “The lengths a man will go to see the Red Wolf in the flesh.”

 

If she hadn’t been bright red already, now she certainly was. Part of it was due to his accent, the way he pronounced the ‘e’ in flesh thrilled her, though she could not really say why.  Her mind was also racing at the possibility that he had knowingly put himself in danger to see her and hoping it was simply in jest.

 

 _‘Had he wanted to see me, he had only but to ask.’_ She thought to herself, searching his face for any indication of the truth of his words.

 

She needed to change the subject quickly. “I brought you some broth. It would be good if you could eat something…” Sansa trailed off as the expression on Sandor’s face read with skepticism given the size of the bowl. Surly a man like him ate much more than that, but given he had not eaten in nearly a week -- they would have to start small.

 

“If you can finish this and keep it down, I’ll see to it you have a more substantial dinner.” She smiled, as Sandor seemed to agree with this offer.

 

He took the bowl of broth and didn’t even bother using the spoon, choosing to bring the bowl itself to his lips and drink it down. It wasn’t exactly what she would have considered gentile or polite, but she tried to remind herself that manners were not innate, they needed to be learned over time. If all went well over the coming days of his convalescence, perhaps she would take the opportunity to teach him a thing or two about castle life.

 

Allowing Sandor some privacy to slurp down the last of his meal, Sansa busied herself by getting some of the ointments and instruments she would need to inspect his leg. Fouling of the flesh could happen quickly and she wanted maintain vigilance. It had been easier to inspect him while he slept, she hadn’t felt nervous or ashamed to do so despite the fact that his injury ended in a very intimate area. Now she was somewhat horrified by the prospect of doing it under his watchful eye, and hoped not to make him feel as uncomfortable as she felt herself.

 

Sansa was, as of now, unaware of the customs in the West between men and women. She was not sure what an appropriate level of physical contact would be, perhaps that was the reason she was blushing again. In the North it was certainly taboo for her to be alone with a man such as him in a room. Even more so to look upon his partially naked body and touch it -- it didn’t matter if she was helping him.

 

He was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when she turned to him with a small tray of different things. A few small ointments, some scissors and tweezers were among the assortment of instruments and medicines she had collected. Sandor threw her a skeptical look, as if he was unsure what she was about to get up to. Surly he did not trust her healing methods.

 

“I’ll need to take a look my Lord, if that’s alright with you?” She didn’t want to show him how uneasy she was. Confidence was the best way forward, so he wouldn’t question her actions.

 

Lord Clegane’s eyes narrowed a moment, as if he were contemplating something different than her simple question. She was about to offer to get Maester Luwin if he would be uncomfortable, but then he spoke. “Well…” He dragged this work out a moment, “I guess it’s nothin’ ya haven’t seen before.”

 

With that he pulled the sheets off of his lower body and Sansa immediately brought her hands to her eyes, dropping the tray of instruments. Gasping from the surprise, she cringed as the tray, and everything on it, clanged on the ground.

 

“No no it’s ok.” She exclaimed, panicked. “I don’t know what it looks like.”

 

Sansa shook her head, _‘That’s not how I wanted to say it.’_

 

“I mean, I...uh...haven’t seen everything...uh including... _it_ so if you could please…” For the love of the Old Gods she was stumbling over her words in the fluster she was in. She had already seen his naked bum by accident this morning and looked upon his chest with more than pure intentions. It was already highly improper and she wouldn’t allow herself to overstep any more boundaries.

 

Before she could start her sentence yet again, she heard his laughter fill the room.

 

“And what’s so funny my Lord?” She asked, her fingers still covering her eyes so as to shield his manhood from her view.

 

“You Northern lasses are afraid of the strangest things.” Sandor chuckled, and she heard the sheets being rearranged a bit.

 

Of course it was silly of her to react as she had, particularly given the fact that she knew Westermen wore no sort of small clothes under their kilts at all. The men didn’t seem to bother themselves over such things, so it wasn’t far fetched that one might glimpse a Westerman’s manhood, particularly if they were mounting their horses. But that didn’t mean she had to look at _it_ now. It would have been impolite and even more than that, she knew him. One day she might have to talk to him again. It would have been far too embarrassing to have to look him in the eye after that.

 

“Alright, it’s fine now. The monster is back in his cage.” There was a slight taunt that came with his words, and Sansa’s first reaction was to respond in anger -- like she might her sister.

 

Opening her eyes slowly, Sansa was pleased to find him sitting upright on the feather bed, his left leg out of the sheets while the rest of the lower half of his body was covered. The burnt side of Clegane’s face was turned up in a roguish half grin, probably at how absurd she had acted just moments before. She found herself unable to be mad at him, especially after what they had been through. Without paying him too much heed, for fear of her cheeks filling with even more color than they already were, Sansa approached the bed.

 

What stood out most in her mind was how much the swelling had gone down over the last days. There had been two or three days following his arrival at Winterfell when she had feared the infection might be out of control. But it seemed that Clegane had been too stubborn to give into the Stranger. He had thrashed, fought and sweated through the worst of it. Now he was staring at her intently, probably wondering what she was going to do next.

 

Starting at his knee Sansa’s fingers traced the line she had sewn, making sure the skin had sealed itself. “How does this feel?”

 

The Lord of the West said nothing, but became visibly uncomfortable as her fingers neared the upper end of the gash, which was high on his inner thigh. It wasn’t disgust that filled his face, like he felt it improper for her to touch him. She could not identify the expression he had, but noticed he swallowed a bit harder as her fingers traced his flesh just shy of the apex of his thighs.

 

“Does this hurt?” She asked, pushing on stitching with her thumb.

 

Sandor flinched only slightly, but she knew it had to hurt more than that. “Aye.” He answered.

 

“That’s good.” She said, catching herself staring deep into his eyes. “And what about here, can you feel this too?” Sansa ran her finger over the ball of his foot. Clegane flinched as if he were ticklish there. She found herself smiling at the thought of the mighty Lord of the West being sensitive on the bottoms of his huge feet..

 

He nodded.

 

“If you can feel, that means you’ll keep the leg.” He was relieved, she could see a weight lift from him when she said it.

 

Of course losing a limb was a warrior’s worst nightmare, but keeping a limb could be even more difficult. That didn’t mean he would get up and use it the same way he had before, there would be pain, strength to build and stability to find. It would be a long road ahead for him -- but she was confident he would weather this storm.

 

“I’ll take those stitches out now.” She said to Sandor, his eyes never once wavering from her as she looked into them. “And if you’re good, I might even read you a story.”

 

At that little remark Sandor snorted, knowing he would be unable to escape her now even if he wanted to. While hobbling to the side of the room to use the chamberpot was one thing, walking, riding and fighting properly would take more time. Hence the reason she hoped to sweeten the deal with a story.

 

It was always a difficult kind of work to remove stitches, usually because the flesh fused with the gut used to sew it together. She had done each stitch individually, which meant cutting them open and pulling them one by one. It would be unpleasant at best.

 

Sansa knew she would have to keep him talking, which seemed a daunting task considering he spoke so little. Pulling up a stool she sat low, so his leg would be on the same level as her eyes. It would be easier to work this way.

 

She cut away the knot of the first stitch and began to pull, “Your men were very concerned about you, my Lord. I’ve never seen such loyalty before.”

 

Sandor breathed out slowly, fighting the pain that came with her removing the gut. “They’re good lads,” He managed to say through gritted teeth,  “even if those worried cunts pull you out of battle for a bloody scratch.”

 

Sansa stifled a laugh at his use of foul language, for he used it in such an endearing way to describe his men she couldn’t help but be amused. Cutting the next two stitches, Sansa continued about her work.

 

“It was you that saved me, wasn’t it?” He asked somewhat abruptly.

 

Focusing on using her tweezer to gently remove the stitch, Sansa’s response came somewhat late. “It was your men who brought you here. I was simply at the right place at the right time.”

 

“But you stopped the bleeding.” He cut in, “You did that.” He looked down at his leg to the sewn up gash there. “Alistor said you never left my side. Why?”

 

It was an odd question, so much so that Sansa stopped what she was doing to look him in the eye. It hit her then, though she couldn’t say how she knew it -- she just did. The Lord of the West was so befuddled by this whole situation because he had never experienced love before. Or at least not in a very long time. There was a forlorn mistrust, mixed with such supreme sadness, it broke Sansa’s heart. To think that he had gone through his life without tenderness, or care for when or if he would return from battle was a difficult concept for Sansa to wrap her mind around. It was hard to believe that eyes could communicate so many things, his spoke volumes. She would not show him pity however, he was not the kind of man that drew on such emotions. But she would show him kindness, let him know that he was deserving of that and so much more.

 

Putting her instruments down, Sansa stood and took a pace closer to the head of the bed. “After all you’ve done for my family, especially for me. What makes you think I wouldn’t do everything within my power to keep you alive?”

 

She did not see his hand snake around her waist, only felt its warmth before he pulled her closer to him. Sandor had unbalanced her slightly, her hand found his chest in order to keep her footing. The hair that covered his torso was curly and thick, her fingers sinking lightly into it. His heart was beating quickly, though his face did not betray nervousness.

 

But neither did hers.

 

Sansa had never looked at a man this way before, nor had she ever felt so “looked at” by a man before. It was as if nothing else in the world existed but her, him and this desire to be even closer to him than she was now. Her arms moved of their own accord around his neck -- feeling every bit of his supple body as she did so. His lips were moving for hers and she felt helpless to do anything.

 

“Well there’s where my daughter has run off to.” Came the unexpected voice of Lord Eddard Stark.

 

Sansa nearly jumped out of her skin.

 

For once all the color drained from her face instead of filling it. She did not know how much he had seen or what he was thinking. Sansa felt guilty nonetheless for being found at such an improper proximity to Clegane.

 

Lord Stark continued, “It seems the legendary Lord of the West is getting the best medical care Winterfell has to offer.”

 

Sansa watched a look pass between her father and Sandor, but she couldn’t quite tell what it meant. She didn’t want to find out honestly, she’d rather just be invisible, perhaps even dead.

 

“Father!” She gasped, running into his arms so she would not have to look upon his face. She did not know how long he had been standing there or what he had seen -- hopefully not much.

 

She squeezed her father tightly for the first time in a long time, a final confirmation that he was indeed flesh and bone. It felt good.

 

“Maester Luwin can take it from here. We have a lot to talk about Clegane, and it seems you are feeling up to it already.” There was a tone to his voice that made Sansa’s hair stand on end. It was that kind of voice he had when she or one of her siblings were in trouble. Sandor didn’t seem bothered by it in the least.

 

Sansa stood next to her father, not sure what to do.

 

“Go on now Sansa.” Her father urged, “I’m sure the Lord of the West is grateful for your care.”

 

“But father I…” She started.

 

“Sansa.” Her father began leaving no room for argument, “Sandor and I need some time alone.” It was embarrassing to be pushed out of the room as if she were a little girl, but she knew to fight with him now would be unwise.

 

Sansa curtsied softly, somewhat reminiscent of the first time she met Sandor Clegane with her father, and left the room. She didn’t even bother taking her book with her, _‘I’ll just stop by in the afternoon when everything is cleared up.’_ She told herself.

 

Of course she had been wrong. Going to check on him in the afternoon Sansa was astounded to see the handmaid cleaning the room and making the bed.

 

“Where is he?” Sansa asked not hiding her shock.

 

“Who my Lady?” The maid replied, somewhat befuddled as to the question.

 

“The Lord of the West. He was here this morning and in no condition to travel.” Sansa fought to make sure her voice didn’t sound strained. She had just been so caught off guard, she wasn’t really sure how to react.

 

The maid merely nodded. “He left with your father my Lady. Seems they had business to take care of in his territories. They needed to go right away.”

 

Sansa felt as if she’d been punched in the gut, as if all the air had been sucked from the room. She’d invested all this time, done everything that she could for him and he was just gone.

 

“I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye.” Sansa whispered to herself, a sense of sadness sweeping over her. She wasn’t quite sure what she had expected from this relationship with him, only that she had not wanted him to leave so quickly.

 

She went back to her room and shut the door, clutching her storybook to her breast. It would be only a short time before she would encounter the Lord of the West again, and she could not know now how the next meeting would seal their fate.


	5. Guests of Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and her family are invited to the West as guests of honor to the Westerland Games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it has been a month since I updated this fic ....terrible. For the first time I had a lot of issues getting this chapter out. Not this part in particular, but was going to be combined with the next chapter....which would have made it over 25 type-written pages. 
> 
> I'm very grateful to Toodle_oo who encouraged me to just publish the first part and take a breather before getting the next chapter up to snuff. I'm my own worst enemy when it comes to the vision of how something should be or look, and there are times (like this one) where it's okay to add a chapter and be a little easier on yourself. She's worked hard on this and I appreciate it!
> 
> Teakturn has also been such a great partner in reading, pointing out logic flaws/places to improve and I know my writing is all the better for it.
> 
> You ladies are so fab!
> 
> So onward with a little fluff for all you beautiful people!

#  Chapter 5: Guests of Honor

 

Arya hadn’t stopped talking since they left the gates of Winterfell, and it was trying Sansa’s nerves. For every step their horses took further from the North, Arya’s chatter became faster and more obnoxious. 

 

“Look at that tree!” she would exclaim from atop her brown horse.

 

“That stream is amazing!” she would point out. “What are those bugs there?” She asked questions almost constantly as they made their way westward on the King’s Road.  

 

Everything Arya saw that was different or interesting was immediately deemed better than in the North. It was driving Sansa up a wall and drawing this trip out longer than it needed to be. Rolling her eyes yet doing her best to be a good older sister, Sansa worked hard at controlling her temper. She reminded herself sternly that arguing with Arya on this trip would not solve anything. It was also not all that long ago that she had come with Robb down this very road as bright-eyed and enamored with the world as her sister. Even if Sansa had shown the restraint of a lady by not pointing out so annoyingly everything that was new and different, her younger self had surely been thinking it. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Arya had been cooped up in Winterfell just as Sansa had. Hidden away from the world under the pretense of protecting her virtue and keeping her safe, the life of a high-born lady was not one of being close with the people.

 

The real world was a scary place. Sansa had experienced its horrors first hand. But it was also a beautiful place, one that should be lived in so that it could be better understood. Ever since Robb’s death, Sansa had been at odds with her mother on the subject of her role as a ruler. Though not a fighter, Sansa had distinguished herself in the war, feeling more at home with the people than she ever had. At the very least, she could say that Arya was further along in her desire to rebel against her parents’ expectations than Sansa had been at her age. Certain parts of Arya’s character that had bothered Sansa as a child, such as her style of dress, use of weapons, and just general boyishness—older Sansa had now grown to admire.  As such, they had become closer over the last year.

 

_ If only I could have seen these things as clearly as she does,  _ Sansa thought to herself, tuning out Arya’s incessant, overly descriptive chatter. 

 

Her mother and her Septa had raised Sansa to be the wife of a King. They had taught her every manner she knew, every song she could sing, and every chord she played on a lute. They had prepared her for a world of fantasy, to marry a high lord, start a family, and live happily ever after in a castle far away from the eyes of peasants. Their view of the common folk and this sharp distinction between ‘us’ and ‘them’ had been made even more clear as her parents had argued about attending the Westerland Games held at Clegane Keep. 

 

The Stark family, in its entirety, was invited by the Lord of the West as the guests of honor. It was a festival of sorts, but not something any Northerner was accustomed to. Mother had characterized it as a drunken party in which tree trunks and axes were thrown about to see who was the strongest and most manly of the barbarians. Ser Rodrik’s characterization of the event, in contrast, was a riveting show of fighting skill and feats of strength long forgotten on the island. The Westerland Games harkened back to a time before knights or tournaments, and according to Ser Rodrik, it was the purest, most undiluted gathering of fighters seeking glory. 

 

No matter what their opinions of the games were, Father had the final say in the matter. He had been clear in his desire to go, saying it was their duty to show their support for the Westermen. The North and the West had fought together, won a war together, and now it was time to celebrate in peace time together. So the Westerland Games was to be a family affair, and Sansa was more excited than anybody else to go. She hid it, of course, not wanting to make her mother more protective than she already was. If Sansa showed any interest in the Lord of the West beyond what could be considered polite, surely mother would throw a fit. The very thought of the kind of trouble she might get into made Sansa grin nervously.

 

Aside from this deep burning desire to see the Lord of the West in his natural surroundings, Sansa had read up on the games. They were truly fascinating. Only a few obscure texts written about these events could be found in the Winterfell library, and even they were vague. The Westerland Games were the oldest of any sort of tournament held in Westeros, that was well established. This particular maester’s account she read was from over three hundred years ago, which left his words open to interpretation. The text speculated on the purpose of the games: strengthening clan ties through dance, drinking, and mingling. Sansa’s eyebrow had raised at the word ‘mingling’, because the context in which it was written implied a more sexual nature. Surely things had changed in the time since this account of the Westerland Games was written, yet Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if it was as lewd as the maester had described it.

 

Part of her doubted it, of course. The ramblings of an old crusty maester from over three hundred years ago certainly carried with it a kind of judgement on the Western culture, or perhaps even an attempt to make the Westermen seem more barbaric than they really were. Still Sansa couldn’t help but think of what it might be like to be swept up into the Lord of the West’s arms and claimed as his wife during such a public event. It was difficult to forget how warm his embrace was, or the strength of his body when he pulled her close to him in the East Tower. Over the last year and a half, her mind had often wondered what his kiss would have felt like on her lips. Even how he would have tasted. Deep down she knew to daydream of such things was a waste of time, an escape into a fantasy that may never be. Yet she enjoyed the slight thrill that came to the pit of her stomach when she imagined the two of them together. They were so very different from one another, like night and day, yet something drew them together that was utterly indescribable.

 

Sansa cleared her throat in an attempt to suppress the warmth that filled her body at the thought of Sandor’s touch. It was better to focus on the games themselves, lest she be overwhelmed by her improper thoughts. The maester’s account of the games detailed both clan and individual events. The clan events were tug of war, horse racing, and war cries. The war cries event was certainly the strangest of the clan games, because the maester described it as the groups whooping and dancing around with no clear indication of how to win. It promised to be a loud experience. 

 

The individual events held the most prestige. This was where a man really showed his strength and dominance across all clans, because each of them submitted only their two strongest. There was log tossing, axe throwing, and wrestling. It was not uncommon for knights to be severely wounded or even die in tournaments today, but the maester had described a certain brutality to the wrestling portion of the tournament that made Sansa uneasy. 

 

Before she could really think on it further, Arya grabbed her attention. “We’re almost there. It’s uhh, bigger than I expected.” 

 

Sansa looked into the direction her sister was pointing. Clegane Keep was just ahead, atop one of the many green rolling hills of the Western countryside. It was a modest holdfast, with two towers peaking out above the main structure. The banners of the seven western clans flew above it, Clegane’s yellow and black the most prominent of them all. The stone used for its construction was a soft sand color, making it look as though the Keep was constantly bathed in pale sunlight. Sansa smiled, for it looked more welcoming than she had envisioned. 

 

The West was one of the poorest, most war-torn places in all of Westeros. The clan structure had not given the people inhabiting this land a stable life. Some of the clans moved from place to place as the seasons dictated, others stayed put—this in and of itself meant there was constantly conflict between the large family groups. It had not been until Sandor’s father conquered the rival clans, bringing them together in agreement, that wars between Westerlanders themselves ceased. So peace in the West was a recent occurrence, one that had only started within her own lifetime.  

 

Yet they seemed to be a happy people. The peasants wore smiles on their faces and had a tune on their lips while they made their way on the King’s Road toward the keep. Southern peoples often seemed happier than those of the North, mostly because of the weather and abundance of food. It was hard not to feel at home instantly, even if people were staring at the Stark entourage as they passed on their horses and wagons. Sansa and her family were dressed as Northerners, which meant more austerly than the people were used to. In the West people often wore short sleeves with light garments made of cotton or thinly woven wool. Sansa herself, on the other hand, wore black leather riding pants, a long sleeved dark tunic, and high necked leather jerkin with fur—well over dressed for the heat and sun of the West. 

 

Smiling at her sister, they spurred their horses so as to keep up with the rest of the family. It was an exciting moment, nearing the end of their journey and knowing that she would eventually see Sandor again. Sansa tried to suppress her exhilaration, not wanting to be crestfallen should her expectations of him not meet the reality. She had heard not one bit of information about him since the war’s end. How he had managed his injury? Or what he had done with the new lands gifted to him? Nothing of his exploits had made their way North and, admittedly, Sansa had begun to worry until they had gotten his invitation. Of course the status of their personal relationship had been foremost on her mind. Though he was not married, the Lord of the West was older than her by fifteen years and she couldn’t really be sure she would catch his eye in the way she hoped. Sansa had grown up with him in her life, and wanted desperately for him to see that she was no longer that little girl of ten who had looked at him defiantly in the courtyard of her own home, but a woman of seventeen—nearly marriageable age. 

 

Her whole life she had been told she was beautiful, but it had only been since the war’s end that she had begun to see it for herself. Sansa was taller than most women, her arms and legs long and slender. She had curves now, and judging by the way many a young knight turned his head, she wagered they were nice for a man to look upon. Her red hair had always been her defining feature and she kept it long and well maintained, brushing it until it shone brighter than copper. 

 

But with all that, she wondered if Lord Sandor Clegane even cared for such things. He was a hard man, after all, one who had fought his whole life for everything he owned. While she and her siblings had been brought up in the safety and security of a castle, Sandor had been caught up in clan warfare. It was said he had killed his first man at twelve years old, a boy crossing swords with a grown man and winning. She had often wondered if a man like that was capable of love, or if violence had poisoned his heart. It was her Septa’s words that kept her hopeful, so Sansa reminded herself that no matter the man or his deeds, there was good in every heart and something to love in every man, woman and beast. These words didn’t sooth the churning of her stomach as she crossed the gates of the castle.

 

There was a festive chaos in the courtyard of the keep as Sansa and her family arrived. They were met not by Clegane himself, but another clan leader Sansa knew only by appearance. He was an older man, dressed in his blue and green tartan, a welcoming smile on his face. It was clear there was very little distance given to leaders amongst the Westerners, for commoners were simply walking around selling all manner of foods, playing their funny bagpipe instruments made out of sheep’s stomachs, and singing or dancing. It was loud, chaotic and exciting. 

 

Dismounting her horse, Sansa was struck by the amount of people coming up to her in greeting. She did not know the men by name, but she knew they were in the war. It was their various limps, lack of limbs, or visible scarring that gave it away. It wasn’t long before a small gathering of men and their wives surrounded her, speaking to her so quickly she could not understand what they were saying.  But Sansa knew they were grateful, stopping her bodyguards so they would not injure any of the people who came up to her. 

 

It was overwhelming, really, the smiles, the hugs, the way the small children reached out for a touch of her hair. Something about it felt right, almost like she was at home. 

 

It wasn’t long before a familiar face showed up in the crowd, that of Alistor, Sandor’s captain. She knew the man well and he took her arm in greeting. Then, taking the opportunity to lean down he whispered something akin to, “Follow, please.” In such a thick Western accent she wasn’t sure if that was what he really said.  _ His Common Tongue has gotten better, _ she noted, despite it all.

 

Looking over at Arya, they exchanged some quick sisterly glances, the subtext of which was,  _ Cover for me. _

 

Her sister, always keen for a little mischief, merely smiled and nodded. 

 

Leading her by the hand, Alistor brought Sansa through the crowds of people, weaving through food stalls and small buildings. Finally they reached an enclosed stable, confusion taking over Sansa’s features. The handsome young man simply pointed to the dark interior of the barn and smiled. 

 

Raising an eyebrow in apprehension, Sansa wasn’t really sure what was going on, only that he was clearly up to something. 

 

Smiling at her again and pointing more in earnest now, Alistor nudged her into the direction of the barn door. 

 

Once she had crossed the threshold, Alistor stood in the doorway and crossed his arms as if he were guarding the entrance. It was a dark place, cool so that the horses would not suffer under the intense summer sun. The only light source a open window on the far end of the building, illuminated a single stall with rays of sun spilling over into the barn. There were horses there, of course. If the smell hadn’t keyed her into that, the slight movement of the animals would have. They snorted and stirred in their pens, unsure of the stranger who had entered their midst. 

 

Dust and hay wandered through the air, illuminated only by the sunlight streaming through the window. It gave the place a sort of magical feeling, though she was surrounded only by horses and hay. Tentatively, Sansa made her way toward the stall at the far end, unsure of what she was doing there and why. The closer she got, the more she could hear the distinct and rhythmic sound of hard bristles on a horse’s coat. She knew she was not alone in this barn, and she felt the hairs on her neck prick up accordingly. The person tending to the animal could not have seen her approaching, because they were hidden on the far end behind the massive beast. Moving even closer then, she could hear a distinct man’s voice humming a tune she did not know. 

 

Sansa’s face lit up, realizing who was there with her. It was a simple tune one would hum to a creature they cared for. Westermen were known to have close relationships with their horses, having harnessed their power long before other parts of Westeros had. Smiling, Sansa did her best to sneak up on him, taking care not to make too much noise with her boots. 

 

It was all for naught, because before she reached the stall, he spoke. 

 

“ Tog bruis agus dèan obair,” Sandor said gruffly, as if ordering about a stable boy.  His big  beautiful stallion came into view, eyeing her with a knowing look.

“Is the Common Tongue forbidden in your lands, my Lord?” Sansa asked playfully, not sure whether he had planned this little rendezvous, or if it was a scheme hatched by his second-in-command.

 

Sansa could not see his expression, much less the man himself. The only thing that tipped her off that he was surprised by her presence was the slight break in the rhythm of him brushing his horse’s coat. 

 

“I said, pick up a brush and help me, woman.” His voice not betraying his obvious teasing. He soon leaned his head to the side so she could see his expression, a slight grin there knowing he had been brash with her. 

 

Picking up the brush with a smirk on her face and butterflies in her stomach, Sansa joined Sandor on the side of his huge war horse.

 

“Will he bite? He’s quite a ferocious beast,” she said, intimidated by the size of the animal. Sansa had also seen the huge stallion in action and knew he enjoyed the taste of blood as much as any bear in the woods.

 

“Nah,” Sandor answered her, his accent giving her pause to smile even more. He patted the monster of a horse on the neck affectionately. “Stranger has a soft spot for pretty girls, kinda like his master.”

 

Sansa let that hang in the air, but she blushed wildly all the same. The horse nuzzled her a bit, eager for her to pet it on the nose. Sansa distinctly remembered the last time she had been so close to this horse, clinging to its neck for dear life as they rode away from where Robb was murdered. It seemed the mighty stallion could be as gentle as it was fierce. It made her wonder if that was the same for his master as well. 

 

She could not help but feel as if she were interrupting an intimate ritual between man and horse, because both seemed so relaxed and in tune with one another. Sansa’s gut told her she didn’t belong there, alone in a barn with this Westerman and his horse. Neither one of them seemed to mind very much, though, happy to have her in their presence.  Relieved, she chose a spot on the horse’s shoulder and began to brush its beautiful black coat.

 

They carried on for quite some time, an awkward silence filling the barn as neither man nor beast made a sound. Sansa needed to think of something to say, to make conversation as she had been trained to do. 

 

Finally something came to mind. She spoke up. “I hear you’re favored to win the games, and that doesn’t surprise me one bit.”

 

It was a lie, really. She had no idea who was favored to win—but she wanted to compliment him all the same. Sandor looked good, if she had to say so. Strong and healthy—above all, standing on both legs without any sort of visible discomfort. Aside from that, she so wanted to see him compete, but felt ashamed to ask him directly.

 

As intense as always, the Lord of the West took his time to answer. He continued brushing his horse, and then turned to Sansa. He was still so tall, though she had grown in height since their last meeting. His dark hair hung to his shoulders, his grey eyes penetrating. 

 

“Would it please you if I won?” He said it as if he hadn’t really cared about the games until now. Sandor’s tone gave her the impression that he could decide to win or lose such a test of strength and fighting ability just as easily as he could decide what he wanted to eat or if he would go swimming that day. His question gave her the feeling that he would endeavor to win only because she wanted to see him do so. 

 

Sansa felt her stomach flutter.

 

She could stare forever into those eyes and never care to say anything. Yet before she could answer, she heard a voice from the door.  _ It must be Alistor _ , she thought, though she could not make out what he had said. Both she and Sandor leaned out away from his horse to get a better look. 

 

Indeed, the man had returned to speak with his friend. Alistor repeated something and wiggled his eyebrows in that funny way Arya often did when she was suggesting they do something their parents would disapprove of. 

 

Sandor’s demeanor changed slightly, something more akin to a nervous stable hand than the monstrous Lord of the West. She knew this because he rubbed the back of his neck a bit in that kind of nervous way that men do when they are trying to say something uncomfortable. Sansa smirked to herself, waiting patiently for him to speak.

 

“I, uh, have to let Stranger stretch his legs,” he began, though a bit unsteady. Sandor patted the horse so it was clear who he was referring to.

 

“After you brushed him?” she asked, somewhat surprised. Brushing was done after a run, not before.

 

Clearly having called him out, though unintentionally so, she could see him get even more nervous, even a slight flush coming to his cheeks. “You should, uh, come. You know, we’ll be back before anyone notices.”

 

They stared at one another a brief moment, Sansa taking him in fully. Her eyes moving over his weathered tunic, knee length battle kilt, his scuffed and worn boots. Sandor could have easily blended into the crowd of common people in the courtyard—save his enormous size and scared face. Where as before she had gotten to know him, Sansa would have found this off putting—his manner of dress and roguish appearance. Now she found his lack of formality strangely endearing, to the point she began to smile.

 

“I’d love to,” she answered, not knowing where they were going or what they would be doing. But she was ready for an adventure. 

 

It was as if he’d caught a bear by the tail and didn’t know what to do next, so was the expression on his face. Mechanically he took the bridle from where it hung on the wall and put it in the horse’s mouth. 

 

Stranger scoffed at the whole thing a moment, a clear sign this had not been in the plans a few moments ago. Not paying the horse any mind, Sandor jumped atop the massive beast and leaned down to give her his forearm. He lifted her up with ease, until she was able to straddle both the horse and him from behind. Wrapping her arms around Sandor’s strong body without hesitation, she pressed her breasts into his back—satisfied by the slight nervous intake of breath he gave when she did so.

 

He used the back exit of the stables, which meant they were very quickly out of the castle walls and into the countryside. There were not many towns in the West, so it was easy to come out into an open and vast countryside. It was stunning, green grass as far as the eye could see, an occasional stream with trees. These lands were as wild and beautiful as the people who inhabited them, and Sansa felt great being so close to him.

 

They could not have been very far from the castle when Sandor stopped Stranger and pointed out toward the horizon. “See that?”

 

It took her a moment to understand what he was pointing at. But once she did see the group of wild horses, they nearly took her breath away. They were a rare sight in Westeros, one you could only see on his lands. 

 

Sandor took off after them, running Stranger close to the group then slowing him down to a walk. The herd of horses looked at them suspiciously, their ears and tails flicking around in the air nervously. He dismounted first, bringing his leg over Stranger’s head, then he reached up for Sansa. Sandor took her by the waist and lowered her gently to the ground, his eyes glued to her as he did so. Taking the bridle out of Stranger’s mouth, he smacked the huge horse on its haunches and it ran off to meet the others.

 

“Aren't you afraid he won’t come back?” Sansa asked Sandor, puzzled he would do such a thing. Stranger nuzzled, bumped and trotted around with the other horses in the group.

 

“Nope.” Sandor said with a smile on his face as he watched his horse socialize. “These are his family and I couldn’t deny him that. Besides, he knows who feeds him apples and oats.”

 

Now that she looked over at the herd Sansa could see what he meant. There were several large horses of Stranger’s size, even a few beautiful black colts. Certainly Sandor’s horse had his family and offspring here in this group. Sansa could only imagine how nice it must be for him to cozy up to his mares and have a little quiet time. Kind of like what she and Sandor were doing now.

 

Walking over to a nice patch of grass, Sandor plopped down to watch the horses now a good distance away from them. Following his lead, Sansa did the same—nervous about what would happen next. She’d never snuck off with a man before, even a boy for that matter. Some of the girls in the castle had done it. Hidden behind the stable and kissed a farm hand, or even more. Sansa reddened at the very thought, knowing that she would not simply give her maiden’s gift away before marriage, but curious about men all the same. Given her naivety she had no idea what was going to happen or why they were here, other than to escape the craziness of the castle and be alone together.

 

After a long while of silence, Sandor spoke. “You still owe me the story you promised back in Winterfell. I’ll hear it now.” The Westerman layed back on the grass, his hands clasped behind his head looking peacefully into the sky.

 

He was referring to her promise as lay ill in Winterfell, something she’d made off handed to him over a year before. She scoffed at his request, because it wasn’t like she could simply repeat a story verbatim, not without a book in front of her.

 

“It doesn’t work like that,” she answered him, slightly miffed he would take such an offer so literally.

 

“Isn’t that what you highborn ladies are taught? Stories of fair maidens and brave knights.” He asked, though she wasn’t sure if he had done so in order to inflame her further or out of an honest sort of curiosity on his side. She realized only then that his only exposure to the rest of the country had been through war and pillaging. 

 

_ He’s probably never talked to a young woman from a family like mine before.  _ Sansa realized.

 

She shook her head, “Ladies learn much more than that. We learn to sew, to manage a household, to read and write...there are many things we learn that aren't just simple story telling.”

 

Sandor nodded his head, as if he didn’t believe all of it never turning his head to look her in the eye.

 

“A song then,” he said, “How about you sing one of your Common Tongue songs for me then.” The Lord of the West had a satisfied grin on his face and Sansa had the sinking feeling he would not relent until he got what he asked for.

 

Of course her mind was drawing blanks, all the hard work she had put into learning many of the defining songs of Westeros seemingly for naught. Until, much to her relief, one popped in her head. “Have you heard ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair’?”

 

At this title Sandor let out a good hearty laugh, turning on his side to look at her this time. “Didn’t know the bards wrote a song about us already.” He joked, the light catching his eyes so they glinted steel.

 

Thinking that perhaps this wasn’t the greatest idea for a song, as he seemed to find the premise funny and it didn’t really suit her voice, Sansa remembered another. “How about ‘Jenny of Oldstones’ then?”

 

The Lord of the West merely nodded, his legs pulled up so that the soles of his feet were on the ground, the pleats of his kilt still covering his most intimate parts but leaving much of his legs visible. Seated next to him in the grass, Sansa could see the massive scar that stretched from the inside of his leg near his knee deep into his inner thigh. 

 

_ It healed well, _ she thought to herself, surprised he had no recognizable limp from the traumatic incident. Most men would have fared much much worse, yet he had overcome it—both legs bulky and strong.

 

It was ridiculous to think she was going to sing without musical accompaniment for a Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. With this thought a nervousness crept over Sansa that she had not really felt before, and she feared her voice would come out weak or broken. But it didn’t. She hit the first deep, sorrowful note beautifully.

 

“ High in the halls of the kings who are gone,

Jenny would dance with her ghosts... ”

 

This setting was beautiful, a light breeze blowing the tall grass, the blue sky hanging lazily over them, the sun warm on her skin.

 

“ They danced through the day

And into the night through the snow that swept through the hall.

From winter to summer then winter again,

'Til the walls did crumble and fall... ”

 

At some point Sansa was no longer sure if he was listening to the song or sleeping, as he had closed his eyes and his breathing had calmed. She continued nonetheless, allowing the emotion of the song to take her voice to places she could not have dreamt of. It was a sad song about a girl dancing in the halls of a kingdom long forgotten. But there was a beauty to it, a sorrow mixed with the hope of something new that she couldn’t quite place. 

 

A moment passed as the last note left her lips and nothing but silence filled the air between them. A smile crossed Sandor’s face as he lay there, having clearly enjoyed his private concert. It pleased Sansa greatly to know she had not shamed herself, or her upbringing, in front of him. He was comfortable in silence, she had known this but found it difficult to feel his same comfort. She was used to speaking, to being with others and to interacting with those around her. It had been Sansa’s entire life. Sandor’s comfort with silence told her he had lead a mostly isolated life, allowing his sword and might to do the talking. 

 

Sitting up abruptly, Sandor turned to her that intense stare he often wore once again on his face. Before she had known him and even since she had known him, nobody had ever looked at her this way. It was a disarming feeling, this realization that he could know you simply from looking at you. He’d been able to sense her emotions and need for support as they had fled the hunting camp after Robb’s murder. He had known exactly what she needed to feel safe and appeased afterward. Now he was searching her soul for something even she didn’t know was there—an emotion she had never experienced nor knew the words to describe it. Sansa was helpless but to stare back at him, the blue ice of her eyes mixing with the molten steel of his own.

 

Sandor’s hand rather suddenly and gently cupped her cheek, his large fingers settling on the back of her head. Without hesitation he brought his lips to hers, fulfilling his own promise to her that had been cut short by the entry of her father into his room. 

 

Sansa froze at first. She had never kissed a boy before, much less a man. The Lord of the West’s beard tickled her face, unlike the softness of his lips. Quickly she found herself reaching out to steady her body by gripping his shoulder, bringing her lips even closer to his own.

 

He smelled of bark spice and grass, his soft lips and warm mouth more inviting than she would have thought. She felt almost in a trance, the motion of their mouths and the flicking of their tongues the only thing she could really focus on. It was all so new, so different. It took all of her wits just to make sure she didn’t miss anything he was doing and return his attentions with the same amount of passion. That was why she had not noticed how he had pulled them back on the ground, her body on top of his, her legs both together and rather lady-like, but pulled  between his raised knees. 

 

Exhilaration pumped through Sansa’s body. She knew this was part of what it meant to be intimate with a man. It always started with kissing before it moved on to other things. 

 

A twinge of fear crept through her, knowing she was all alone with him in the countryside. The realization that she was far away from her parents and those sworn to protect her from just such things and just such men sent a nervous feeling through her body. Sansa had to work hard to keep the words of her Septa out of her head, making her feel guilty for following her heart. 

 

_ Will I have to give him my maidenhood now? _ she wondered, remembering her Septa said men didn’t stop once they started such encounters. The mere thought almost made her break their kissing, but his hand firmly kept her lips to his. 

 

He seemed rather content to kiss out here in the field, though, his hands not wandering any further than her waist, his lips happily exploring hers. Slowly the moment passed, the feeling of unease at what he might do or what his intentions could have been dying away. Sansa’s fingers laced into his hair, the bristly feeling of his beard feeling so alien on her skin. They had barely come up for air, his mouth not having left her skin since they started. 

 

It would be the very loud and close snort of a horse that would interrupt their explorations, Sansa nearly jumping out of her skin at the sound.

 

“You jealous cunt of a horse!” Sandor exclaimed, batting Stranger’s curiously dropped nose out of their faces. 

 

The situation was so ridiculous she couldn’t help but laugh. “You didn’t have to hit him,” she said, smiling all the same.

 

“Damn horse needs to learn some manners when it comes to romancin’,” Sandor said, smirking as he did so. “But he’s right about one thing. We’d better be on our way. I don’t need your papa givin’ me any more lectures.”

 

Sansa tried to hide her surprise, but knew she was poor at such things. Her mind was brought back to what he and her father had discussed in Winterfell when she was excused from his rooms while she was tending to Sandor’s leg. Had her father seen more than she had hoped? What had he said and why? Knowing she wouldn’t get any more out of Sandor than she already had, she merely nodded and got to her feet. There was something different about the man now, like a weight had been lifted off of him—as if the mighty warrior of the West had been nervous on her account. He helped her on his horse with a bit more confidence than the last time, this time mounting the mighty steed so he sat behind her. 

 

Stranger was fast for his size, making a good time to back to the castle. Pointing to where her parents were, Sandor let her off his horse and quickly made for the barn. Whatever her father had told him, it was clear that the feared Lord Clegane wasn’t keen on getting caught with Sansa as they had before. 

 

One of the corners of Sansa’s mouth turned up. Despite where he came from and his reputation as a barbarian and fierce warlord, Sandor had shown himself to be an honorable man. True, they had snuck off together to finish what they had started in Winterfell, and true, he had kissed her without her leave. But it had been exciting, and most of all, it had confirmed what Sansa had so desperately hoped for—to catch his eye.

 

In the time since the war, many a young and old lord of Westeros had come to call on her. Sansa had spent more afternoons than she could count in the company of a man, her Septa not more than ten paces behind them, making a sort of conversation as it were. Sometimes these lords were arrogant, speaking only of themselves and their petty accomplishments. Other times they were focused on her name or her beauty, eager to marry into her family and have a woman like her on their arm. Not one of these men had left an impression on her the way that Sandor Clegane had. Not one of them had been as raw and honest in their ways as he had. True, many of them had been better looking, some of them younger—but they simply were not him. 

 

And they never would be.

 

“Sansa! Where have you been?” a voice called.

 

Sansa heard her mother’s voice over the music, and immediately looked to her. Luckily Arya was right next to her mother, so she could read her expression.

 

“I, uh, needed to…” Sansa kept Arya in her peripheral vision so as to make sure she could hopefully marry up her white lie with that of her sister’s. Arya nodded her head very slightly, and indication to keep going. “...get something out of my chest…” Arya looked over at the tower and kept nodding, “...in the tower. It’s all fine now. I’m glad I caught up with you.”

 

Of course her mother wasn’t convinced, but had no evidence to the contrary. Before she could even be further questioned, Sansa heard her father’s voice. “Ahh, Lord Clegane, I wondered when you’d be showing up.”

 

The two men greeted one another in the Western fashion, clasping each other’s forearms and hugging. They chatted a moment and Sandor greeted her mother, then her siblings one by one. When he came to her, she merely nodded and curtsied as best she could—knowing that if she were to lay eyes on him she’d turn the brightest most suspicious color of red possible. 

 

This day had been just as exciting as she had hoped, and Sansa could only pray that the games tomorrow would be even more interesting.

 


	6. The Westerland Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gets more than she bargained for when she watches Sandor compete in the Westerland games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm about to head to a one week long course in Copenhagen and don't know when I'll be able to get back to writing. So I wanted to leave this one with you! I hope you enjoy our 17 year old hormonal Sansa ;-)
> 
> A special thanks to Teakturn and Toodle oo yet again! I admire so much that they would take the time to help another writer and I am so grateful for it. Hugs to you ladies!
> 
> Oh and you get another chapter, because I again had to divide this one! Whoot Whoot!

#  Chapter 6: The Westerland Games

 

The day of the Games had by no means been a disappointment. The sky was the deepest color of blue Sansa had ever seen.The sun shone bright in the sky, making it much hotter than any of her family were used to. The wooden platform on which the guests of honor were seated afforded them a good view of the action. They were lucky to have the shade of a huge oak tree, lest Sansa boil in her light blue cotton dress. It was one of the lightest garments she owned, but it was still too warm for the hot western sun. She dabbed her forehead with her handkerchief.

 

Sansa had attended several tournaments before, but none were as exciting as what had already transpired that day. The Westerland Games were fast paced and full of exhilaration. There were no long waits while knights readjusted their armor, or lay helpless on their backs for their squire to help them from the ground. The competitors wore no armor, and, as a matter of fact, they seemed to be drinking most of the time. While this seemed counter productive to Sansa, it only fed her curiosity for what would happen next, and who might win. 

 

The competitors in the Westerland Games were an unruly, jovial bunch. No man alive could argue otherwise. From the roar of the crowd to the war cries yelled at one another from across the large field, the clan events had certainly held a quaintness to them that made Sansa’s mother cringe, and Arya belt out encouragement in the most unladylike of ways.

 

Chaos ruled the day. That was the only thing Sansa could be sure of from her spot above the mass of people. Ser Rodrik did his best to explain the events as they unfolded, but nobody was certain that he was correct. Seven arbiters, one from each clan, gave their marks on the group events. However, what those marks were, how they were given, and why, made no sense. Not understanding their manner of speech didn’t help, but even if Sansa had understood them perfectly, the noise of the crowd would have drowned out the words.

 

Sandor’s clan had not won the group events.That much had been clear, because the leader of the winning clan chugged a whole bottle of liquor, danced a rather strange jig, and was then thrown up in the air several times by his fellow family members.  _ A foreshadowing of the party tonight,  _ Sansa had thought to herself in that moment. Her mother had mentioned how out of hand the celebrations in the West could be at breakfast, which had dampened Sansa’s hopes of attending with her parents.  _ Perhaps Mother will forget,  _ she tried to tell herself, but knew it was ludicrous to hold on to such a hope.

 

Sandor had been involved in the group events this morning, which made Sansa smile. It was difficult to miss him, as he stood head and shoulders taller than most men. Due to the amount of people participating in these events, the field of competition was quite far from where she sat. Sansa had been disappointed because she was unable to make eye contact with him, or even wish him luck before hand. Given the mass of people who competed in these group games, it would have been hard for her to see him anyway, her makeshift perch too far away to discern facial expressions properly. 

 

She wanted to see him again. She needed to check if that spark from yesterday was really there or if she had just dreamed it all. 

 

After getting into bed last evening, Sansa thought about their kiss and re-lived it several times in great detail. Sandor’s lips had been everything she had wanted and more. He had been respectful with his hands, caressing her softly, but not too improperly. In a foolish way, she wondered if he felt the same way or had thought about their encounter as much as she had. Needless to say, Sansa was desperate to see him, though she did her best to hide this fact from her family—particularly her mother. 

 

It was difficult to tell how much her mother knew of Sansa’s interest in the Lord of the West. Her father had already given Sandor a talking to, so hopefully that meant any word of their “almost kiss” in Winterfell had stayed with him. Her parents were close, so it was difficult to say whether her father had divulged her misdeed or not. Still, Sansa felt slightly paranoid sitting next to her mother and watching the games unfold. 

 

Now Sansa fought the urge to squirm in her seat, excited that the ring for the individual events in the afternoon would take place right in front of where they were seated. The people crowded around as best they could, with children, and even women, sitting on the shoulders of family members to get a better look. The mood was different than in the morning. There was a slight air of seriousness about the whole thing, which spoke to the old maester’s words on the prestige that came with competing individually. 

 

The men who stepped forward for the individual events were so different from one another, it was almost impossible to think they had all agreed the same tournament. There were two from each clan, meaning fourteen all together—all wearing their proper tartan kilts and odd hair styles. Some were similar to Sandor, tall and muscular, men built for war. Then there were others who were fat with big arms, or skinny with long legs. Not all of them struck Sansa as equally competitive in the events they would soon be watching. 

 

In all honesty, it didn’t matter. She could see the Lord of the West from across the way, his hair pulled back, his muscles flexed under his tunic, a slight spark in his eyes. That was all that mattered to her.

 

When their eyes did finally meet, Sansa felt a rush through her body.  _ He’s just as happy to see me as I am him,  _ she thought, nearly swooning as she turned a slightly deeper shade of pink.  _ Hopefully mother will think it’s just the sun,  _ thought Sansa. She didn’t dare glance over at her mother, for fear her grin might give everything away.

 

Axe throwing was the first event of the afternoon, and it was much more thrilling than she would have thought. Each time an axe hit the target, Sansa nearly jumped out of her seat. The sound and the reverberation of it hitting its target could be felt from where she was. These were not small axes, either. They were as long as her leg and almost certainly quite heavy. 

 

Those who were doing poorly, would stomp off in a fit of anger, usually to the boos and jostling of the crowd. Those who were doing well, would be cheered on and taunted by anybody close enough to throw them words of encouragement or insult. No matter what was going on, at the very least, they were having fun together.

 

_ It’s so much better than war,  _ Sansa thought to herself, watching the smiles of the people as the games continued. 

 

There was something else, in addition to the events, that made them all the more interesting to Sansa. It was something neither she nor her parents had anticipated, but it gave the tournament an entirely different flavor than before. It should have been no surprise that the Westermen would go into their games, just as they would into war, with their traditional kilts in the colors of their clan. What none of the Northerners had prepared themselves for, was for what that meant while they competed in such close quarters during the individual events. Westermen wore not a stitch of clothing under their kilts, nothing to hide what the gods had graced them with from the view of others. 

 

For example, when a man would kick his leg back while throwing an axe, in order to counter-balance himself, you might get to see more than just his axe swinging in the wind. Some of the men had an odd style of throwing where they did a sort of tumble and then threw the axe. One even threw an axe at the target in a one-handed handstand. The most surprising part wasn’t that he hit the target, but that the entire time he was positioning himself everything below his kilt was on display.

 

Sansa and her sister were shocked at first, gripping each other’s hands from the sheer surprise of it all. In the North this was unthinkable, barbaric, and inappropriate to the highest degree. In the West, however, they seemed to care little for things such as the modesty of men. They even seemed to love the athletes flashing their most intimate parts to the crowd. 

 

There was no way Sansa would even look at her mother sitting next to her. It was indecent to look over and share such a scene with your mother. Surely she would turn red with embarrassment if she did. Of course her lady mother was fuming at the whole thing, not having wanted to come in the first place. Sansa had to smirk, though, knowing that in the North, rules dictated that you didn’t leave halfway through an event or tournament lest you offend your host. So despite the racy displays of male anatomy, Sansa’s mother, as well as she and her sister, stayed where they were. 

 

It was extremely exciting for a young maiden and, dare she say, arousing.  _ Is this what the old maester was talking about when it came to strengthening clan ties?  _ she wondered, sure that most of the women in the crowd had to feel the same as she did. There was—how could she say it?—quite a variety in what men had between their legs, something that Sansa’s septa had never told her about. Add that to seeing these men engage in great feats of strength, and it gave a whole different feeling to the individual events that made a young maiden hot under the collar. 

 

Wiggling in her seat a bit, Sansa clutched her sister’s hand as Sandor made his way forward for the log toss. Given his size and strength, his axe throws had not required any wild acts of momentum, and thus there had been no kilt lifting for him. There was, however, a certain physicality needed to lift a one hundred-eighty-pound log and throw it as far as you could. Sansa sat at the edge of her seat, knowing this next event promised to provide her a much better view of Sandor than she had enjoyed before. Fighting a smirk, Sansa moved her eyes just to the spot she wanted to look at on Sandor’s body.

 

The Lord of the West was incredibly focused, that’s the one thing that stood out the most to Sansa in this moment. There was so much noise, given he was the chosen leader of all the clans, and so many things going on—Sansa couldn’t imagine what it was like to focus your energy in such madness. She remembered briefly how calm he had been when he saved her from the hunting camp. It wasn’t hard to realize that this kind of tournament, on friendly terms, must be easy for him. 

 

A slight bit of paranoia hit her when Sandor picked up the log and glanced her way. Sansa’s breath hitched, both nervous for him and for herself. She wanted him to do well, but didn’t want their little secret to be revealed. It would only make her mother even more angry than she already was, and Sansa couldn’t afford to get into trouble now.

 

Picking the log up from the bottom, Sandor balanced the heavy thing so that the longest part of the trunk was up in the air over his head; and the skinniest part in the palms of his hands.  Having seen some of the other men throw it first, Sansa knew more or less how he would throw it--and she as ready. Inhaling deeply, Sandor gained a little momentum as he ran toward the throw line. When he heaved the hulking piece of wood in the air, he lifted his leg to counter-balance. Sansa smirked, knowing she was already turning a little darker shade of pink. 

 

All went exactly as she had hoped for. _He has such a lovely bum,_ she smiled to herself. A little bit of wind had been in her favor of course, sending the hem of Sandor’s yellow and black tartan kilt up into the air more than he had probably intended. The Warrior had certainly blessed him with a body near that of the god himself. It was muscular, that was the first thing that caught her eye, the creases of muscle coming from the back of his legs into the huge muscles of his bum. It was lighter than the rest of him, and she found herself giggling out loud, then trying to cover up the fact by coughing when her mother threw her a slanted eye. _Apparently his skin is as pale as mine,_ Sansa thought, realizing that his slightly darker complexion must have been a product of the hot western sun.

 

The crowd didn’t seem too pleased with his first toss, a slight grumble roving through the mass of people. Sansa’s palms were sweaty of course, the pit of her stomach a mixture of anxious and warm—the sight of Sandor’s bum fresh in her mind. He picked up his second log much the same way as the first. Only this time he spun himself around on his feet, his kilt lifting up and spinning around with him. Sansa’s eyes were ready, of course, but not prepared for what they saw.  _ Is that is manhood? _ She asked herself, her mouth gaping open. 

 

Throughout the day, and particularly in the individual events, they had seen the most intimate parts of almost every man competing. There was, well, quite a diverse set of manhoods being flashed around the tournament grounds. So by this point, Sansa considered herself rather knowledgeable about the different sizes and possible shapes one’s manhood might take. Sandor’s, on the other hand, had been much larger than the others she had spied upon that day. Hanging down low enough on his leg that Sansa had to blink again while he was spinning.

 

_ Gods be good,  _ was the only thing running through her head. Biting her bottom lip, Sansa felt her core pulse at its sight, and a rush of warmth to her woman’s place. It was improper for a young lady such as herself to look upon a lord’s manhood and think such impure thoughts as she was now—but by the gods, she could not help herself. 

 

Unfortunately, Sandor’s second throw was not as far as he would have liked either. She could see the anger on his face. The frustration at knowing he might not make it to the final event building. Alistor immediately stepped in, grabbing his friend by the shoulders and shaking him where he stood. Sansa didn’t know what he was saying to Sandor, only that it seemed to steady him a bit. Sandor’s second in command then kissed him on the forehead and smacked him hard on the butt. _ That’s a rather odd form of motivation, _ Sansa thought, but Westerners were known for their open affection between men. It seemed to be a cultural point that the rest of Westeros did not have. Arya lifted an eyebrow in suspicion at the two, and continued watching. 

 

Sansa wasn’t sure if he was nervous, only that Sandor paced the grounds a bit contemplating how he might best attempt his final throw. Some of the rival clans were shouting obscenities at the mighty warrior, a mixed murmur of insults and encouragement running through the crowd. He took his time though, not worried about what the others were saying. Sandor was a rock in the storm of chaos that surrounded the individual events. Sansa liked it. She found something attractive about his intense focus.

 

Grabbing the final log, Sandor balanced the giant thing in his hands much like he had before. He took a few paces back from the line, took a few huge breaths, then took three giant lunges toward the throw line, heaved the log as low as he could and used his arms and legs to vault it through the air. There was a strange silence as everybody in attendance watched the massive thing fly through the air. Sansa even had to shield her eyes from the sun to watch it continue its descent. Gripping her sister’s arm, Sansa sat on the edge of her seat to see where it might fall. The roar from the crowd said it all.

 

Clapping her hands, but trying not to look too enthusiastic, Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. He had done it, he had made his way into the final event. She could see a broad grin spread across his face as many of his men leaped upon him in congradulations.  _ At this rate he might just win after all _ , Sansa smiled smugly to herself. 

 

“They’ll setup now for the final event, my Lady.” Ser Rodrik said to Sansa’s mother, trying to give the best explanation he could of the day’s events. “They’ll be wrestling now for the final honor.” His voice held a slight excitement to it. Both Sandor and Rodrik had fought together and knew each other, so Sansa wasn’t surprised that the older man was secretly hoping the Lord of the West would win. 

 

“Let me guess,” Sansa’s mother said. “They wrestle each other without the burden of their clothing?” 

 

In a way, Sansa could understand her mother’s frustration with the whole thing, given what had already been flashed their way. It was, however, still shocking to hear her speak like that.

 

Of course Ser Rodrik was a bit dumbfounded as to what to say next, it made Sansa wonder if they would indeed fight naked for the final honor. Finally, gathering the courage to look over at her mother, Sansa snuck a peek to her right. Lady Catelyn Stark was giving Ser Rodrik the stare. One eyebrow was raised on her beautiful face, and her eyes were narrowed. It was the kind of stare that warned its recipient not to try the Lady Stark’s patience. In this instance, if Ser Rodrik had indeed confirmed her suspicions of nude wrestling, she would have probably skinned the warrior alive for not warning them of it in the first place. 

 

Sansa held her breath, and found that, on the other side of her, Arya was too.  

 

Luckily, Sansa’s father butted in. “Oh come now, Cat. It’s quite a bit of fun, isn’t it?” He took her mother’s hand and kissed it.

 

At that her lady mother softened a bit. Smiling, Caetlyn answered, “If by fun you mean chaotic, yes.” Her mother chuckled a moment, “It has been very interesting. With that, I cannot argue. I just don’t know if its proper for the girls to watch, that’s all.”

 

Doing her best to look straight ahead, as if she were not listening, Sansa kept on ear open on her parents’ conversation. Her father laughed. “We can’t keep them safe forever, my dear. Sansa’s nearly a woman grown, and Arya is well on her way. They need to see the world a bit. Explore things for themselves.”

 

“I’d rather she did it on her wedding night and not in this crazy barbaric mess of a tournament,” Sansa’s mother answered, but not in a mean way. Sansa knew this tone well, and her mother talked this way more to play with her father than to scold him. Sansa felt a bit of relief knowing they would not be snatched up from the tournament before its end. 

 

They didn’t have too much more time to speak, as a horn blew the crowd to silence. 

 

The main event was ready.

 

Sansa was shocked when the two men stepped forward. Sandor’s opponent was even larger than him, which was hard to believe. He was slightly taller, had a bit of a gut, but big huge arms—certainly the biggest she had ever seen. Had you not known Sandor, he would have looked normal sized compared to his opponent, not his usual large, towering self. What struck Sansa even more was that both men were shirtless and oiled. 

 

Of course Sandor looked like the Warrior himself, his large defined muscles oiled so that every detail was shown to the crowd. Squeezing her thighs together gently, Sansa couldn’t help but blush at the sight of his chest and stomach. The hair on his body shining in the sunlight, forming a delectable little path down to his waist and below. His kilt hung low on his hips, which meant Sansa could allow her eyes to linger over every part of his torso, especially those muscles that came over the hips and ended in a V shape to where his manhood was. Under the blue skies and the warm western sun, Sandor was extremely lust inspiring. One of the strongest and most physically gifted Westermen on display in nothing but his kilt and bare feet. 

 

It seemed there were other girls who found him inviting too, for they whistled and yelled words at him as one of the judges made him turn for the crowd’s pleasure. Sansa glared at the girls, but could not really fault them either. He was exquisite, holding a beauty few men were capable of. Sandor’s opponent on the other hand, looked like he had swallowed a watermelon. Nobody would ever deny he was strong, that was unmistakable in his bulk and form--but he was different from the Lord of the West. 

 

Sansa had to admit the situation made her nervous. Neither man looked the type to back away from a fight, and all she had read about the games had said how brutal this competition was. She could not be sure who would win and by what means. Sansa shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with what was about to happen, but excited all the same.

 

The wrestling area, in the middle of which both Westermen stood, was a large sand filled ring approximately ten feet in diameter. The borders of this pit were marked by jagged rocks. It was as though they were put there to injure the two men instead of mark the boundaries. Ser Rodrik was explaining that the final event was the greatest show of strength and wit between two men. They were to wrestle each other until they submitted, not until one was pushed out of the ring. 

 

“What do you mean by ‘until one submits,’ Ser Rodrik?” Sansa found herself asking before she could stop her mouth. “Until one gives up?”

 

Her mother eyed her suspiciously and Arya leaned over to hear more. “Well, Lady Sansa, if you had even seen a Westerman fight, you’d know they are rarely the kind to give up. They would rather fight to the death, or until one passes out. But to submit in front of all the clans and their elders, would look poor indeed.”

 

She gasped, knowing what the knight meant. They were fighting for pride, for their honor—neither man would give up unless they had to. Sansa felt a chill run down her spine at the thought.

 

A silence fell over the crowd, making Sansa and the rest of her family focus on the ring in front of them. They were so close, she swore she could hear the two men breathing. Some words were said by the master of ceremonies as he patted both men on their backs. Then a question was asked that Sansa could kind of make out. It was about dedicating their win, or something of that nature. Sandor’s opponent pointed to a common lady, though Sansa could not really see her from where she sat. The elderly lady was lifted into the air and their clan cheered for her.  _ That must be his mother,  _ Sansa wagered. 

 

Then all eyes fell to the Lord of the West. Sansa never figured him an orator, yet he spoke to the crowd a moment—but of what she could not say. His eyes moved slowly to her, and Sansa suddenly felt her heart jump into her throat. It was when her name was said, and he pointed right at her, however, that she began to feel faint. Sansa was, by no means, ashamed of him—but she was not keen on her parents knowing the extent of their possible feelings for one another either. She was sure all of the color drained out of her face while she sat there dumbstruck, looking back at him. The Lord of the West had a grin on his face and a mischievous glint in his eye. 

 

Arya chuckled at her discomfort and Sansa heard her mother gasp at the whole thing in disgust, but Ser Roderick came to her aid. “It’s traditional to dedicate the win of the tournament to a guest or a foreigner.”

 

There was no way to know if her mother truly bought it, Sansa was far too scared to look her in the face to see if she had. But everybody was looking at Sansa, and waiting for something. Sandor wore an amused expression and lifted an eyebrow at her, a sign Sansa needed to do something. Not knowing what to do, or the consequences of accepting such a dedication, Sansa stood up from where she sat on her wooden perch and held her hand high for the crowd to see. The cheer that emanated from all of the clans at this gave Sansa such a rush that she wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. 

 

_ They love me,  _ she realized.  _ Is this what it’s like to be a queen? _

 

She could have strangled Sandor at this point, but somehow that cheeky grin made her rethink it. He knew exactly what he was doing, knew it would send her mother into a fit, put Sansa on edge, and “stir the pot” if you will. He seemed to thrive on such things, found them amusing in ways Sansa could not quite fathom. 

 

Settling back into her seat, Sansa glanced over at her mother. She would not be able to avoid conversation with her much longer. “What?” Sansa whispered to her lady mother, in reaction to the expression on the older woman’s face.

 

Lady Catelyn merely gave her a raised eyebrow and Sansa knew she was in trouble without anything being said. It was unfair because she had done nothing wrong, other than be picked by the Lord of the West as the woman he wished to dedicate his win to.  _ Well, we did kiss,  _ Sansa smiled at the thought of that.

 

The two men grasped forearms in the center of the ring, a final pleasantry before the event would begin. Taking a couple of paces back from one another, Sandor and the other Westerman faced each other, their postures tall and upright.

 

A horn blew and both men ran at one another, the sound of their bodies connecting like two horses colliding. There was such a force to it that the crowd almost collectively gasped from the reverberation. Neither one of them slid backward, a testament to the strength of both men. Their shoulders pushing against each other’s, both Westerman fought the slickness of the oil in order to get a good grasp on his opponent. 

 

Sansa was on the edge of her seat already and the match had only just begun. It was impossible not to get caught up in it, and she no longer needed to hide her true reactions from her mother. She had an obvious personal stake in the final event now, nobody could claim her excitement or concern inappropriate.

 

Unable to grab the large man around the waist and keep his grip, Sansa watched Sandor quickly bring his hands to the backs of the man’s knees, pulling the bigger man’s legs out from under him. Sandor fell to the ground with him of course, his opponent not letting go from the waist of his yellow and black kilt.  Both Westerman scrambled with their hands, Sandor trying to control the other man’s, and his opponent trying to push him away. Planting one big foot in Sandor’s stomach, the big man sent him stumbling back a few paces, leaving him enough time to get back on his feet again. 

 

Undeterred, Sandor sidestepped the man as he came rushing toward him, kicking the back of his knee—bringing his opponent to his knees. Quickly Sandor got behind his opponent, wrapping one of his huge arms around the man’s neck and choking him. Sansa could feel her hands shake with anticipation at the fact that this might be over soon, it looked as though the Lord of the West did, indeed, have the upper hand. 

 

Her joy was short lived however, the bigger man grabbed Sandor’s arm and was able to throw him over his shoulder. The Lord of the West landed on his back with a huge thud, his gasp confirmation that the wind had been knocked out of him.

 

“Ohh!!!” Sansa gasped, grabbing Arya’s hand as it happened. Surely her sister was living for this, loving anything that had to do with fighting and violence. But Sansa was not so inclined, afraid he might get himself permanently injured. 

 

The huge man with the watermelon belly pounced on Sandor with more agility than Sansa thought possible. His hands reaching, and clasping around Sandor’s throat and squeezing. She was literally shaking as he coughed, the force of the man’s hands on Sandor’s neck choking the life out of him. Yet, the Lord of the West somehow came to his senses. Sandor brought both of his fists down on the man’s forearms at the same time, literally giving it all the strength he had left. With that, his attacker loosened his grip on Sandor’s neck and fell down closer to him. Sandor grabbed the man’s head with this hands, bringing his forehead hard against the man’s nose. It broke with a sickening crack. The crowd went nuts, blood flew everywhere, and the bigger man dropped back from Sandor slightly dazed. 

 

Sandor pushed the man off of him and took a few paces back from where they were. His neck was red and it seemed he needed to take a moment to get air back into his lungs. They eyed one another from across the way, taking each other’s measure. Sansa wanted it to stop, she wanted somebody to win and be done with it. It was one thing to see two men fight with swords, it was almost clinical in its choreography and pageantry. This was just raw. There was something brutal about it when you consider they were using only their hands.  Both men were covered in wet oiled sand. Their bodies were pumped and at the ready, their chests heaving from exhaustion—yet they would still fight on.

 

They ran at each other once more in the heat of the sun, but Sandor’s opponent got the better of him. The bigger man tackled Sandor to the ground and lead immediately with his forearm to Sandor’s face. Not once but three times.

 

“Stop it!” Sansa found herself yelling from the stands, though she was sure nobody, other than her family, could hear her over the roar of the crowd. 

 

Using his forearms, the larger man pressed them both over Sandor’s throat. His face was red from exertion, and you could see how he pressed into Sandor on his knees over him. The Lord of the West was in real trouble now, Sansa knew that because his legs were flailing in an attempt to gain some kind of ground. 

 

It wasn’t working.

 

Sandor was losing his air, and with that, his strength. She could see his arms, moving slower, detect the lack of strength he would need to get his opponent off of him.

 

_ He’s going to lose,  _ Sansa thought, bringing her hand to her mouth.

 

Then he did something completely unexpected. Sandor took his index finger, placed it under the Adam’s apple of the man atop him, and pushed it in there as deep as he could. Instinctively the man backed off just enough for Sandor to wriggle out of his grasp and punch him straight in the face. He did it again but the man caught his fist, in their struggle Sandor was turned on his belly and pushed into one of the jagged rocks at the border of the field. 

 

Sansa could see blood coming from the scared side of his forehead. She hoped to the gods it wasn’t too serious, it seemed at least that he had his eye. The man was trying to get him in a choke hold from behind, but Sandor would have no part of it. Twisting around he elbowed the man in the face, slid out from under him and immediately came behind him. Grabbing him around the waist, Sandor hauled him over his shoulder and kept him in a bridge type position. Sandor’s feet were on the ground, his back arched and he was using his immense strength and flexibility to push the bigger man’s neck into the ground. 

 

It was ingenious really, the bigger man’s weight was on his neck, so as long as Sandor could hold him in place he would lose his breath in that position. Sandor’s opponent struggled, fought as he could but not even his flailing kicks had an impact on the Lord of the West.  It was hard to watch the man struggling for air, knowing that all he had to do was give up. His arms moving strongly at first, then less, then less, then nothing. When he had stopped fighting all together, Sandor released him. The crowd was going wild, he had won. Sandor checked the man’s neck and nodded—he wasn’t dead, he was just unconscious. 

 

The judge lifted up Sandor’s arm in confirmation of the win. He was heaving, blood running down his face, scratches all over his body--the indomitable man was exhausted. The crowd went wild and Sansa found herself letting out a big cheer of her own. He had done it and she was so proud of him. 

 

Sandor had his hands on his hips, still catching his breath despite the wild excitement of the crowd. But when he finally looked up, his eyes were only for Sansa. He smiled, clearly relieved he had done what he could to honor her. He raised his hand and motioned she come down to him. Sansa didn’t even think twice, grabbing her skirts she made to stand up.

 

“Sansa, sit down,” Her mother said, it’s not proper to go down there.

 

Before Sansa could even argue, Alistor had made his way up to the wooden stands and offered her an arm. That same cheesy grin on the blonde man’s face she had seen yesterday. Taking his arm with a smile Sansa looked back, “It would be rude not to show my support.”

 

Lady Stark clearly didn’t like Sansa’s reasoning, but there was nothing she could do about it either. Sansa was already on her way down the stairs and through the huge crowd of common folk. By the time they made it to the ring, Sandor’s opponent was slowly coming to himself, though Sansa wasn’t sure he knew where he was. It didn’t matter, she knew where she was, and couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. 

 

They stood across from one another in the ring, Sandor’s muscled body covered with sweat, dirt and blood. He’d cleaned off his face a She found herself wondering if he always came back from war looking like this, there was something so animalistically appealing about it she found herself blushing deep. 

 

“You’re hurt.” She said to him, looking over at the cut on his head.

 

“Just a scratch,” he said. “Anything’s an improvement on that side of my face,” he said, smiling.

 

He pushed some of her hair behind her ear and Sansa thought surely he would kiss her. He had that same look in his eyes he had before and she couldn’t help but wonder what that might mean to do it here, in front of her family and literally every Westerner.

 

“Mother is furious,” she said, a demure blush coming to her cheeks and a giddiness bubbling within her.

 

“Let her be,” Sandor said over the celebrating crowd. “These are my lands, your family are my guests, and you are  _ mo sheun fortanach _ .” He grinned at her, making Sansa wonder if he had planned to rile her parents up a bit.

 

_ My lucky charm. _ Sansa knew these words. They had been told to her many times during the war by men grateful for their lives.  She wondered if Sandor didn’t know the words in the common tongue or just preferred to say them in his own language. It certainly made it more endearing, his accent making her heart leap.

 

They smiled, staring deeply into each other’s eyes despite the utter craziness of the dancing, singing crowd. Sansa brought her fingers to brush against his, a secret gesture hidden from the view of her parents by the mass of people around them. Sandor’s rough fingertips brushed hers back, a small recognition of his feelings that made her heart jump from her chest. 

 

Interrupting their little moment, a crown of flowers were placed over both their heads. Hers woven in delicate pink and white carnations, his in white and dark purple impatiens.  Sandor had a lopsided grin on his face while he pushed a stray lock of red hair from her face. Sansa blushed but wasn’t quite sure what to expect next. She knew only that celebrations of Sandor’s victory were already well underway.

 

He went to grab her. 

 

“What are you doing?” she asked, afraid of getting any closer to him than they already were. She was already very much in trouble.

 

“A victory lap,” he said simply, mischief all over his face. 

 

“But my dress…” she began, her fear of getting into even more trouble with her mother coming to the surface. 

 

“Your dress now?” He laughed with an eyebrow raised in apprehension. Not caring too much for her protests, Sandor simply hoisted her up so she sat on his massive shoulder. Slightly unbalanced at first, and grabbing furiously at his head for support, Sansa slowly got used to riding on his shoulder. He had a firm grip around her legs, and she wasn’t about to go anywhere. 

 

Her comfort with this spontaneous show of happiness slowly growing, Sansa began to laugh and wave. It didn’t matter if her dress was totally ruined, or if her mother was staring daggers at them from across the way. A humble crown of flowers atop her head, Sansa felt every bit a queen. The common folk seemed so happy Sandor had won, so happy to see them together, waving and laughing. It was so much better than being awarded a rose at some tournament from a knight you had casually given your favor to. There was no other place she would rather be than here, with him, celebrating the joys of peace time.

 

Sandor took his time walking her through the crowd, taking the time to show off his achievement. But there came a moment where, even the winner himself, could no longer milk this moment. He brought her in front of the platform where her parents stood, placing her softly on the ground. For a second she saw a flicker in his eye and wondered, for the second time that afternoon, if he would kiss her. Though she would not have protested had he chosen to do so, he instead turned to her parents and went down on one knee. Whether it was a form of thanks or a form of apology Sansa couldn’t say, only that he then stood and motioned she rejoin her family.

 

Sansa hadn’t taken more than five steps back toward her seat when her fears were confirmed. 

 

“No, you may not.” Her mother spoke before Sansa even opened her mouth. There was no way to turn Sansa’s smile faster to a frown than that tone. Now, more than every, she wanted to go to this huge celebration that would start now. Honoring the end of the Games, and, of course, Sandor’s win. 

 

“But mother, I…” she began to protest, a look of indignation forming on her face. It wasn’t her fault she was loved by the locals, that Sandor had won a tournament in her honor and wanted to celebrate it. 

 

Her mother was being so completely unfair.

 

“No buts!” Catelyn Stark was firm, her hands on her hips indicating she would not back down. “You eat dinner with your sister, and then it’s off to bed with you. We’ll talk about this in the morning. Am I clear?” 

 

There was a final eyebrow raise that let Sansa know it would not be an easy talk on the way home, certainly it would have to do with quizzing her on the proper way to act with men, just to point out all the ways she had done it wrong today.

 

Sansa felt an anger rise in her chest, but she said nothing. Nodding her head in capitulation, she made her way back to the tower where her family were guests, not even looking behind her to bid Sandor farewell.

 


	7. Into the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stealing into the night, Sansa meets Sandor one final time before the Midsummer Eve’s Featival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I am so lucky to have such hardworking betas who really push me. Toodle and Teakturn have been so great! Thank you!
> 
> A cute fluff episode in the Westerlands before we get to the final goodness 😉

#  Chapter 7: Into the Night

 

There was no telling how long Sansa had been sleeping, only that the gentle tugging on the shoulder of her sleeping gown woke her with a start. She was groggy, needing a moment or two to take in her surroundings. 

 

“Sansa, wake up!” Arya was whispering as loudly as she possibly could. 

 

Not at all pleased, Sansa shot her sister a deadly look. She had gone to bed so angry with the world, so fed up with the lack of freedom she had, that Sansa was in no mood for idol chatter—especially at this hour. “What?” Was said through gritted teeth.

 

Pursing her lips together, as if she regretted waking her big sister up for an adventure, Arya took a moment to reply. “The guard is asleep,” she said, leaving a silence so Sansa could hear the loud and obnoxious snores of the Northman guarding their door from the hall.

  
“And?” Sansa asked frustratedly, completely unsure where this was going and still too half asleep to understand.

 

“Well, let’s go.” Arya threw Sansa a devilish grin and placed her boots on the side of the bed.

 

It took Sansa a moment to fully understand what her sister was implying, Arya’s eyebrow wiggles always a sign that trouble is on the horizon. Sansa’s first reaction, ingrained in her since she was a child,  was to do as her mother had taught her. To be good and stay where it was safe. However the more she thought about it, about the possibility of seeing Sandor again—and even kissing him again—she decided to throw caution to the wind.  Aside from that, Sansa was no longer a child, even if her mother thought her to be. It even felt good to do something for herself, not thinking about the consequences.

 

Nodding to Arya, Sansa put her boots on quickly, and grabbed her dressing gown. It was a light blue woolen garment that covered the sheer fabric of her sleeping gown so as to protect her modesty. Quickly tying the ankle length robe off at the waist, Sansa put on her boots and turned to her sister.  

 

Of course Arya was over the moon. She loved not only defying their mother, but exploring new things in a way Sansa was not. Of course she was fully dressed as though she’d been anticipating the right moment to sneak past the guard, and continue down to where the action was. Sansa felt a thrill pass through her body, her legs weakening ever so slightly while she and her sister slipped past the guard. The pair made their way down the long dark hallway of the keep and down the tower stairs. There was not a soul in this part of the castle. The laughing, music and song were all concentrated in the castle’s courtyard. 

 

Clegane’s Keep was a different sort of structure than what Sansa was used to. The center courtyard, similar to Winterfell, housed barns, blacksmiths, and all sorts of repair sheds. Unlike Winterfell there was yet another large part of the courtyard with relatively high walls, no roof and fruit trees planted all around it. Sansa had not known what this area was for as they had passed it earlier in the day, but now she could see it was the Westerner’s version of a Great Hall. The weather never got cold here, so instead of giving the area a roof, they simply allowed the trees to do it. Lamps were hung on the branches of the fruit trees, making them seem as though they were floating in the air and giving the dining hall a eathral feel. 

 

Sansa admired what little she could see of the dining hall from where she was, some of the lamps peeking out over the high wall. She knew that was where they were going. Knew they were going to catch a glimpse of the forbidden party. 

 

Snaking through the dirt of the inner courtyard, Sansa and Arya weaved in and out of the many horses there. The air was filled with the sounds of people laughing, yelling, throwing up and even… well she didn’t even want to think about it. One could only assume it was the sound of copulation going on in the darkness, in the corners of the courtyard that were poorly lit and just slightly hidden from view. 

 

It struck Sansa in this moment, as she held Arya’s hand, tiptoeing around in the darkness, that it was possible she might catch Sandor in an act similar to that couple near the tree they were passing. He could be wrapped in the arms of another woman with his hands up her skirts. He had won the games, after all, and she had seen how some of the women had been looking at him. 

 

It would devastate her. 

 

It would make her feel foolish for sneaking away with him yesterday, for thinking about him as much as she had these last days and weeks. Suddenly she didn’t feel like going further, preferring to live a lie than to catch him in the act with another. Her hesitancy must have been noticeable for Arya yanked her arm so Sansa would not get left behind. 

 

It was too late now, there was no way she’d be able to sneak back to the tower by herself. Swallowing hard, Sansa followed her younger sister.

 

The walls of the open-air great hall were made of stones with a primitive mortar. Sansa and Arya slinked under the cover of semi-darkness around its outer edges, trying to remain unseen. Admittedly those outside of the confines of the dinner room were far too drunk to notice them. A few men were sprawled across the ground, snoring heavily in the dirt and grass. Choosing to either step around them or tiptoe over them, the girls finally found a sizable hole in the wall through which they could both have a peek. 

 

Peering in ear-to-ear with her younger sister, Sansa was surprised at what she saw. A strange sort of music was playing, men and women were dancing and the people were feasting boisterously. From where they stood they could see their mother raise another glass together with their father and kiss—they were clearly enjoying themselves along with the rest of the Northmen. However, try as she might to find him, Sandor was nowhere to be seen in the festive chaos. 

 

“We should split up so we don’t get caught,” Arya whispered, motioning Sansa go around the corner at the far end. “We’ll meet back here.”

 

“Don’t get into any trouble,” Sansa smirked, nodding to her sister that she understood her plan.

 

It was dark, the moon covered by clouds, and Sansa used her hand to walk along the wall. There were no torchlights, which was all the better. It would do her no favors to be caught disobeying her parents tonight, none at all. She was nervous for many reasons of course. Not only had she disobeyed a direct order from her mother, leaving the confines of her room in a foreign land, but she had also not seen Sandor where she thought he would be-in the thick of the festivities with her parents. 

 

Rounding the corner a bit too quickly, Sansa gasped and shot back behind the wall. Peeking out again she saw a couple of men sitting around a small fire away from the wall, Sandor among them. He was unmistakable in his size, clearly telling the men a funny story. From where she was, Sansa couldn’t tell what he was saying, she could only see they were all laughing and drinking to his words. She recognized Alistor of course, sitting with the others but far more drunk than they were. Sansa wondered to herself whether he’d be the next body snoring on the pebbled walkway.

 

A wide tree not more than ten paces away from the wall caught her eye, and she knew it would afford her a better vantage point with which to spy on the Lord of the West. Sansa didn’t dare approach Sandor, it would have been improper of her to do so under such circumstances. At the same time, she wanted to feel involved in the action, even if she watched from several feet away.

 

Waiting for a moment of particularly loud laughter, Sansa tiptoed to the large tree. Sandor wore a bit of a black eye and scratches on his neck from the wrestling match. From this angle, where she could see the light of the fire hit his face more directly, there was no doubt he had taken some very hard blows. It gave her a pang of guilt in her chest, knowing she had asked him to win without understanding what that meant. But he had done his clan proud, and honored her in the process. 

 

She must not have been fast enough, because his eyes flickered to her before she was able to hide herself completely behind the large tree trunk.

 

_ I hope he didn’t see me, _ she thought.  _ The last thing I need is for him to think I’m checking up on him.  _ Even though she clearly was. 

 

She had little chance to contemplate the hypocrisy of her actions.

 

“What are you doing out of your gilded cage, Little Bird?” The voice came almost out of nowhere, a large hand quickly covering her mouth to prevent her from screaming. 

 

Her whole body tensed, and she gasped into the large hand. When Sandor’s face came into view, she relaxed. The irony of this moment wasn’t lost on her, because his face was the thing of nightmares. The kind where creatures stole little girls and made them their slaves. Even as a child she had known that. As a young woman, however, Sansa knew better. She knew the Lord of the West for who he was, and that made him beautiful to her.

 

Sandor released her mouth. Realizing it would be a good idea to say something, Sansa quickly regained her wits. “You were amazing today,” she breathed. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

 

He took a step closer to her, their bodies mere inches apart. Sansa could feel the warmth roll off of him, as well as the carnal tension that was growing between them. He leaned in so his lips were near her ear, “I’m a man of my word,” he said. Then he paused. “I did it for you, Sansa Stark. I’ve been waiting here so I could tell you myself.”

 

Sansa was in disbelief. Pulling his head back, Sandor looked at her a moment waiting for a response. “But how could you know I would pass this way…”

 

His cheeky grin stopped the words coming out of her mouth. He leaned in again, this time his beard lightly skirting her cheek, “I’m hunting the Red Wolf. Didn’t you know?”

 

She felt her whole body tingle at his words, understanding the meaning behind them. They were thrilling. 

 

He continued, “What sort of a hunter would I be if I didn’t learn its ways and habits?”

 

Nuzzling his neck, Sansa brought her hands over his chest, knowing better now than ever what lay beneath his tunic. “And you’re not afraid of what a wolf might do to a hound in its grasp?” she whispered.

 

A feral growl left his lips. Pressing his massive body against hers with a gentle authority, the Lord of the West kissed her jawline lightly, teasing her with some affectionate nips. He was daring her to gasp out loud, to get them caught in the act. Nonetheless Sansa giggled softly in his ear. 

 

“It’s too late,” he breathed between kisses. “The hunter has already been captured by the prey.” 

 

Their lips met then, his were as warm and inviting as the day before—just with the sweetness of their local alcohol added to them. He was by no means drunk, but had enjoyed a few rounds with his men. Sansa’s hands gripped Sandor’s back while they kissed behind the tree. They were not so far from his men, but judging by their laughter, they had not noticed anything yet. 

 

Stopping abruptly, Sandor took her by the hand and dragged her back to where she had come from. The wall was further away from the men around the fire and afforded them a bit more darkness in which to continue kissing. At first he pushed her up against the wall, but saw quickly that the coldness and roughness of the structure was painful for her. Without disconnecting their lips, Sandor turned them so he had his back on the wall and she was leaning in on him. 

 

_ Captured by the prey, indeed.  _ Sansa grinned to herself, since to anyone walking by it would look as though she had pushed him against the wall to have her way.

 

She loved his lips and the way they made her feel. His hands were warm and firm, his body like a tree trunk she wanted to climb for days. The Lord of the West was making feelings surface in her that she had never known or considered, emotions she had always felt in the dead of night, but never experienced with another human being.

 

Whatever possessed her hands to move from his back, to his waist, to under his kilt, she would never know. Only that something deep within her wanted to touch the object of her desire, fondle his most intimate parts. Sansa knew it was improper to think or even do such things, but it had been teasing her all day, the Westerners not caring what was flashed around during the games. 

 

His had certainly been lust inspiring. 

 

Even now, as her fingers wandered between his legs unbid, Sansa felt true arousal coursing through her veins. His manhood was large and heavy in her hand, semi-hard and already quite thick. The skin was softer than she imagined, his balls different that what she had expected. There was a rush of new experiences coming toward her, and she welcomed it fully.

 

At this Sandor pulled his face away from hers in disbelief, as if he wasn’t sure what she was doing or why. They stared at each other for a long moment, and Sansa was afraid she had been too bold. She was a highborn Northern girl and she was also much younger than him. There was a burning curiosity inside her, one that was hard to contain. Sansa had no idea where this was leading, or what she was asking of him by teasing his most intimate parts. She only hoped she had not lead them down an irreversible path. So they stared at one another awhile in the half moonlight, trying to understand each other’s motives without the benefit of words. 

 

His hand cupped her cheek a moment, and Sansa knew he knew what she was thinking. Perhaps her father had given him a harsh lecture on Northern marriage customs, enough for the Lord of the West to understand the value of her virginity to both her family and her people. Perhaps Sandor had just studied her enough to know she was young and curious, interested in him and in testing out her emotions. It mattered little what he was thinking now, as his other hand clasped around her own, tightening it around his manhood. Then he slowly and evenly guided her along his length, giving her the proper pressure and tempo. Sandor’s eyes rolled back into his head, his breath became more intense at the feeling of her hand moving across his most prized organ. 

 

It was crazy to think that one of the most formidable men in all of Westeros could be pleasured by her in this way. He was enjoying it immensely, because his breath began to increase, and his hips thrust into her hand. She liked it. Sansa liked the feeling of him, enjoyed knowing that she was giving him pleasure—though she knew naught of what she was doing. 

 

Plunging his hand down the front of her robe, the Lord of the West quickly found her breast and took its measure in his hand. He seemed more than satisfied with its firmness, a lust filled gasp escaping his lips. Just as quickly his other hand went to her other breast, his thumbs running across her hardening nipples. 

 

“Mmmmmm,” Sansa bit her lip in an attempt to keep her mouth shut. It was hard though, his coarse thumbs and her sensitive nipples were arousing her more than she knew possible. 

 

In response to his hands, Sansa had begun to grip him harder, tugging at his manhood in the most unladylike of ways. Sandor had grown so hard in her grasp, she could not imagine that such a thing could happen to a body. It only spurred her further. 

 

She couldn’t say why he took her hand away from him, only that he mumbled something and lifted her so that she was almost eye level with him, her boots finding places in the rocks of the wall to settle themselves. Sansa whimpered slightly at the loss of his manhood in her grasp but was quickly silenced when his mouth covered hers. Steadying her with one hand, Sansa could feel his other hand lifting up her skirts. It made her feel giddy, excited even. In this moment, this exact second, Sansa had no fear of losing her maidenhood. Every fiber of her being was screaming to be taken by him, to know him in a way others did not.

 

His hand slid up her inner thigh, stopping at its apex. There he groaned. Her silken small clothes covered her woman’s place, but that did not stop him from rubbing her there. Sansa became aware of a strange wetness she had not known was there. Her cheeks reddened out of embarrassment, but it seemed like this was what he was looking for, because he rubbed her between her legs more vigorously. 

 

Satisfied with what he found, Sansa felt him lift her skirt over his hips and bring her hips down to meet his. There was almost nothing between them, he wore no undergarments and she wore only a thin layer of silk. He began to drag her over his length, and she used her legs eagerly to help him do so. She was severely overstimulated. Between her woman’s place, her breasts and her entire body she didn’t know what to do or how to react to his affections. Only that whatever they were doing he seemed to enjoy as much as she did.

 

His manhood felt amazing, unlike anything she had ever experienced. And whatever feelings it was stirring, she could feel a tension growing inside of her stomach. 

 

He had long since stood still, and Sansa found it was she who was raking herself across him with such vigor. It was unladylike and against her mother’s wishes, but it made Sansa feel like a woman.

 

Something new was happening, Sansa could feel it in the pit of her stomach. A kind of energy was building within her, growing bigger and stronger with every movement of her hips. She didn’t quite know what would happen when it got too strong for her, when she could no longer contain it within her tiny body. Sandor’s hand came to rest on her lower back, taking some of the strain off of her legs. Sansa was grateful because it allowed her to follow this feeling, rub his length even more intensely than before. She could feel her herself getting short of breath, this energy in her belly reach its peak, then it shattered suddenly.

 

She threw her head back to let out a feral moan, clutching Sandor tightly. As she did, his hand brought her face to his shoulder and she let it out there, somewhat muffled so nobody else could hear. 

 

He was mumbling curse words in his language, but Sandor said them with such reverence she wondered if she was mistaken. When she finally felt stable enough in her legs to stand up straight in front of him, a glint of moonlight caught his eye. She could see how pleased he was, so utterly taken with her in this moment. They kissed again, a long sweet kiss. 

 

She wanted him to take her maidenhood, and she wanted him to do it now. Such a strong, all-encompassing feeling should have scared her, but it didn’t. Her hand wandered from his bicep back under his kilt and easily found what she was looking for.  _ Gods he’s large _ , she thought.  _ He’ll never fit! _

 

“Pssst, Sansa!” A voice came from the darkness, and Sansa knew only one person who whispered so loudly. 

 

It was her sister. 

 

Both Sansa and Sandor froze, not really sure how close she was or what she had seen. 

 

Arya called out to her again, “Sansa where are you? We must go. Mother and Father are leaving the feast.”

 

A knowing glance passed between them. Sansa knew they both wanted to continue, but would not able to under the circumstances.

 

Sandor quickly pulled her robe in place and helped her tie it.

 

“I’m coming,” she whispered back to her sister. Her eyes met Sandor’s one final time, and she kissed him on the cheek. Then she hurried off back toward the direction in which she had come. 

 

“Where were you?” Arya asked, slightly annoyed. 

 

“Just looking at the stars,” Sansa managed to say, hoping her response was not too suspicious. As she glanced back behind her, toward the wall where she had been, Sandor’s form was no longer there. 

 

He was gone. 

 

She and Arya moved through the courtyard, making their way slowly back to the tower. With more people leaving the enclosed space, Sansa and her sister had to recalculate their route--unable to take the way from which they had come. Creeping around the maze of walls, Sansa froze at the sight of her parents laughing quietly to one another as they walked. Both she and Arya ducked back into the shadows, unsure how to make it back to their room without crossing their path. 

 

A jolt of fear ran through Sansa, knowing it would be hard to hide what she had done from her ever watchful mother. Sandor’s beard had rubbed against her skin and she could not be sure it wasn’t visible to her mother’s knowing eye. 

 

No sooner had she and Arya resituated themselves in the darkness, and taken a few breaths to calm themselves, than Sansa heard a familiar voice come from the walkway. The man’s speech was slurred, but even then, he wasn’t speaking the common tongue—so it didn’t really matter. Both she and her sister could see Alistor come from behind her parents and attempt to strike up a very drunken conversation with them. 

 

Almost gasping, Sansa fought to quiet her voice. Both she and Arya were hiding behind nothing, they were merely in a dark part of the same walkway their parents were using, trying to run up to the tower before anyone noticed they were gone. The sisters were frozen, not sure what to do. In his drunken stupor, however, Alistor seemed to know they needed his help. 

 

Laying his hand on her father’s shoulder, and turning both he and her mother away from where she and her sister were, Alistor began telling some kind of tale in a mix of Gaelic and the Common Tongue. Sansa wasn’t sure if her parents would just run away as fast as they could from an overly talkative drunken Westerman. So she held her breath in anticipation. 

 

They didn’t. 

 

Looking over her father’s shoulder, Sansa saw Alistor throw her an exaggerated wink. It was certainly so sloppy even her parents would have known something was afoot, but neither of them turned their heads.  _ A miracle.  _ Sansa smiled.

 

“Come on,” Sansa whispered to her sister, taking her hand and pulling her down the walk way. They ducked through an arch and ran as fast as they could to the tower.

 

“He’s a strange one isn’t he?” Arya remarked once were able to catch their breaths in the relative quiet of their room.

 

Sansa could only smile, “Yeah, that he is.”

 

She breathed a sigh of relief when they found themselves in their beds without incident. Had Arya suspected something, she would not have been able to keep her mouth shut for very long. Sansa knew this for a fact. Laying her head back on her pillow, Sansa exhaled, her mind ablaze with the things that had transpired this evening. She didn’t know what to do, how to feel or understand what it meant. 

 

Sansa had many suitors. Her septa couldn’t stop talking about them. Knowing that she would be eligible for marriage in the coming year, she considered her options. The Westerners had never shown up to a Midsummer’s Eve Festival before, and it had not been for lack of invitations. She wondered if that would change now. 

 

She hoped it would. 


	8. Midsummer Eve's Bounty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of the festival has come. Now it's time for Sansa to choose her suitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a crazy month, but I've made it through to the other side. I hope to spend more time writing over the summer now that work is less stressful. But finally this has come out...finally!
> 
> Teakturn and Toodle OO have been great, they always keep me on my toes and ask the tough questions!! It's oddly motivating to return to a work and see 100+ comments, changes and questions. :-p THANKS ladies!

Sandor stood at the edge of the Great Hall of Winterfell, near an open window, and fidgeted. 

He never fucking fidgeted, and now that he found himself doing it, he hated it. He had crossed swords with some of the best warriors on the island, fought in countless battles, negotiated the terms of western freedom—and never once had he felt as nervous as he did now—standing amongst highborn Northerners on the night of the Midsummer’s Eve Festival.

It was nearly midnight, yet the sun still hung high in the sky. It was a strange feeling, having a night where nobody slept, a promise of endless summer never completely fulfilled. It was strange to him and his men, and it made Sandor realize how distinctly out of place he was, and the Northerners made sure he knew it. Sandor couldn’t exactly be sure what was more off putting to them, his manner of dress, or the fact that he was a full head and shoulders taller than the lot of them. Snorting Sandor didn’t care all that much. He had come here for a reason, and would weather their narrowed eyes and soft laughter behind his back, if that was what it took.

In the tradition of his homeland, Sandor wore his hair pulled back tightly with black ribbon securing it in place. He didn’t like it because it exposed his scars even more than normal. While his face had never bothered him or anybody he knew, that did not stop it from drawing the morbid curiosity of others. The sneers and stares he got from the lords and ladies of the North added to his growing discomfort.

He wore a formal shirt, one with a collar and cuffs. Sandor grumbled at how restrictive it was, particularly around his neck. The ribbons tied around his collar added to this growing feeling of constraint, as if an enemy had his hands around his throat. It was, however, tradition to wear the colors of your clan in this fashion. Sandor’s ribbons were both yellow and black. Hidden under it all, was the charm Sansa had made for him as he lay sick in Winterfell. His little secret, his hope that their time together had led her to the same feelings as he had.

Exhaling nervously, Sandor thought back to the first time he had met Sansa in the courtyard of Winterfell. She’d been nothing more than a twig of a girl with songs of kings and queens in her head. Of course he had not known the little half pint he had scared off was the daughter of the high lord, nor had he reckoned on her little temper. There were very few people in this world that would have given him that kind of a glare openly, even fewer who would have called him a monster to his face.

He had almost laughed out loud at her boldness, had worked hard to suppress a grin at the embarrassed flush that had come across her cheeks while her father admonished her for her behavior. Even then he had known she was something special, but never in a thousand years would he have thought he’d fall for the girl—or that he had a chance with her in any way.

Sandor still wasn’t completely sure if he really had a chance with her. They had shared some exciting moments when they had last seen one another, it had certainly left him wanting more. Yet she could have stolen those moments with any man here, none of them would have turned her away. It made Sandor wonder how many young lords had come this night with the same desire as he had.

Stealing some glances around at the lords and lordings that had packed into the Great Hall renewed his confidence.  _ I don’t look like such a fanny compared to those twats in their lilac silks,  _ he laughed to himself and readjusted his formal kilt. The damned thing was tight around his hips, making him feel like he had to squeeze his thighs closer when he walked. It was uncomfortable at best, and impractical should a fight break out. In contrast to his battle kilt, which had pleats all around and allowed for more movement, his formal kilt was flat in the front. The rest of the overly long fabric hung across his chest and was thrown over one shoulder, pinned to his formal shirt with the sign of his house. 

For the occasion of the festival, Alistor had made him a fetching sporran out of the softest lamb skin Sandor had ever felt. Adding to his waist belt, Sandor wore his father’s dirk. It was still as sharp as the day it was finished, and it gave him a reassuring sense of continuity knowing he carried a piece of his father with him. Sandor was happy to have convinced the guards that his weapon was merely for show, but in all honesty he never felt at ease without steel by his side. 

Sandor was uneasy with the politics surrounding the festival and its main event. He fingered the hilt of his dirk with the calculating purdence of a seasoned warrior. He had no idea what would happen next. Despite what they might say, Northmen were just as human as any other man. Many here hoping to benefit from marrying either within or above their station. Should the some of the young ladies choose differently, Sandor knew these younger lords to be sore, entitled losers. 

This, of course, added to the tension in the room. 

It was the worst kept secret in Westeros if he, of all people, knew the highborn families set up the pairings beforehand. While girls like Sansa might have been brought up to believe otherwise, Sandor knew the parents played a large role in shaping the choice the young ladies would make. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he was not high on her mother’s list of suitors.   

_ I’ve sacrificed more than any of these green boys for the North,  _ Sandor reminded himself.  _ I have just as much right to be here as any of them. _

Robb’s death had caused a protracted war with the South and some of their Western allies. It had come out later that Lord Stark himself had been the target, when he was not there they killed his boy instead. Of course it was not his fault, but Sandor had always felt guilty that the boy had been murdered on his watch.They would have stolen Sansa too, taken her to some far away place and done horrible things to her.The only redeeming thing he had done that day, and for the next several years after that, was having saved Sansa from a horrible fat, to bring her back to her family whole. 

What he had never intended was to feel a connection with the girl. 

On the outside they were from two separate worlds, yet Sandor could not deny that fate had conspired to bring them closer together. On the night of Robb’s death he had felt her pain, a deep sort of empathy people can share by losing friends and loved ones to violence. She had been but a child then, excited about seeing the world, not realizing the horrors that lay within it. 

Sandor had done right by her, seeking revenge in her name. In clan society avenging a death wrongly committed was part of life. It was what kept things in balance. Sandor had owed her that much. But even if he had not been raised that way, the look in her sad blue eyes had moved him in ways he could not have known. They had moved Sandor to do crazy things, animalistic things that men should only ever do in war. They had no place in civilized society, or anywhere else for that matter. Sandor knew the depths of his own being, knew what he was capable of. 

And he had done it all for her.

Yet in that war, when he had rode into battle with nothing but his skill, Sandor had set events into motion he could not stop. He had started a chain reaction that had led him to this point, standing here, hoping she would ease his aching heart.

Thinking back to the night he had come back to her wild from battle and covered in the blood of their enemies, Sandor would never forget that wry grin that had crossed her face as she realized what he had done. It had left an impression on Sandor that few could have managed. 

It was only when he had seen her again in Winterfell, some years later, that he knew he had fallen for her. 

She had changed a lot in those years, but then again, Sandor knew how war changed a person. Sansa was focused, serious in the way she went about looking after him. Though he had detected a hint of the girl she had once been: a slight blush from time to time, a certain demureness that was so characteristically her, he had found it endearing instead of off putting. He’d been so thankful to her for saving his life, that he didn’t have any words for it. 

All he’d wanted to do was kiss her lips, to see if she had grown as curious about him as he had of her.

Sandor had not hidden his feelings well, because Sansa’s father had given him quite a talking to. First, Lord Stark had thanked him for his bravery and gave praise to his prowess on the battlefield. Then, he had explained how sensitive young Lady Sansa was, that she was bred to be the wife of a king. In so many words her father had strongly hinted that she was off limits to a man like Sandor. That had not come as a surprise. He was well aware of his position in polite society even then.

What had surprised him the most was finding out that her purity was of the utmost importance to her station, something that was unthinkable where he came from. A young woman like Sansa, with her beauty and her strong will, would have had a line of men around the village ready to prove to her that they were not only good providers, but also good lovers. 

Virginity was not something his people worried about, and Sandor remembered being astonished by this fact. It was only when she had come to the Westerland Games, and they had fooled around in the darkness that he had actually believed it. Sandor had seen that young, curious hunger for intimacy that came with inexperience. He had seen it, and decided not to exploit it. 

Alistor would never let him live down getting caught behind a tree finishing himself off after the fact. The very idea was funny enough even now that he had to stifle a laugh. But it had been worth it, not to take something from her that she prized. 

But now?

Now.

Now he stood in the Great Hall of Winterfell, attempting to play the part of a proper lord for her sake.

Loath to mingle with the others, Sandor stood with a cup of wine in his hand and grew impatient. He had never been one to wait for anything, never needing to ask politely or thank anybody. But this world, the world Sansa had grown up in, was so different from his own. Assimilation into the North would be nearly impossible for a man like him.

The talking and laughing that emanated from the Great Hall slowly dissipated. Sandor assumed it must be midnight, for several small children ran through the mix of lords and ladies with bells on their feet and crowns of flowers in their hair. Checking out the window Sandor could still see the sun. Nobody back home would believe it if he’d told them—an endless day where you celebrate the bounty the summer had brought.  

The musicians began to play, causing everybody to stop in anticipation of what was to come next. One at a time, a young noble lady would emerge from a darkened archway. They would wear a smile, of course, some more demure than others. The crowd would take a moment to clap, murmur to one another about their looks or style of dress, and watch as she approached a young lordling supposedly of their choosing. The two would become a pair that night, dancing, talking and discussing the possibility of marriage before the winter was to come.

Sandor had no cause for concern that he would be chosen before Sansa emerged. Despite the fact that he was a war hero, a lord of Westeros, and possessed far greater strength than most, he was not popular amongst the fairer sex. Alistor said he was too damn mean and grumpy for women to like him, and there was probably some truth to that. Sandor was no fool, however, he knew his size and appearance scared gentlewomen. 

Yet it was different with Sansa. She had never feared him. If anything she had stood up to him, treated him like any other man. 

Snorting to himself at the thought, Sandor took in the pageantry of the event. Despite the relative riches of the North, the party dresses of these young Northern ladies were simple at best. Even in the summer it wasn’t particularly warm, meaning most were made out of heavier fabrics than Sandor was used to, in a style consisting of long sleeves and barely dipping necklines. In some sense, it didn’t surprise him. If these young ladies were truly maidens, it seemed quite logical that they were doing their best to maintain a degree of modesty, even if he found it ridiculous to prize such a thing.

Transferring his weight from on foot to another nervously, Sandor got a kick of butterflies in his stomach. Each time a new young woman passed the arch, the great warrior of the West found himself holding his breath. More times than he dare admit to himself, Sandor had thought about this moment—when they would see each other again. He had asked himself what she might be wearing, how she would style her hair, what kind of expression she might have on her face when she emerged. No amount of daydreaming, however, could have prepared him for what he saw.

It was as if all of the air had been sucked from the room. Not a single person in attendance drew breath. All eyes fell to Lord Stark’s daughter, and Sandor found himself—like every other person there—paralyzed by her beauty. Goosebumps began to rise on the back of Sandor’s neck and he felt the little hairs there begin to stand on end. It was as if lightning had struck nearby, and had left that sort of buzzing sensation in the air that both heightened one’s senses while making their heart pump faster. 

Sandor was flabbergasted.

Sansa wore her auburn hair loose, allowing it to come in soft waves ending at her lower back. Her slender neck was exposed, leading to a deep neckline, with a tightly cinched corset pushing up her breasts for everybody’s eyes to feast upon. Her dress came off the shoulders with some light silky short sleeves, they were feminine in Sandor’s eye and suited her youth. The color of her dress reminded him of home, the color of the sun-kissed green grasses that you only saw on the wide and ranging plains of the West. 

A more beautiful woman he had never seen in his life, nor had been captured on canvas. Although he had not come there for her beauty, Sandor found little harm in indulging his eyes in it now. The yellow detailing of her gown giving him a small hope that she was hinting at the man she might give her favor too, for no northern coat of arms had such a color. 

Shaking his head lightly, Sandor knew he needed to remain focused and not let his boyish desires cloud his judgement, or throw him a crushing defeat should she choose another. All of the eyes in the room followed the demure swish of her silken gown while Sansa walked around the Great Hall. There was no mistaking that particular pang in his gut, and a hint of insecurity creep into his consciousness. 

_ A woman so perfect would never chose an old dog like me _ , he told himself. Sandor fought the urge to slump his shoulders, focusing on standing up straight. 

It was only when her eyes met his own, to the exclusion of everybody else in attendance, that Sandor felt properly disarmed. He had met countless opponents on the battlefield, bested men he had no right to, but nothing had prepared him for the feeling of being stripped bare under her gaze. Sansa Stark was a woman on fire, a subtle strength to her posture, confidence in her walk. It told him she had made no mistakes, nor would she allow herself to be persuaded from her true desires.

Sandor swallowed hard around the lump growing in his throat. His knees felt weaker the closer she came. His heart was skipping beats. It was a strange thing to feel hunted, to watch the perfect predator come toward you and know you didn’t stand a chance. Before tonight Sandor would have thought it impossible to feel alone in a room filled to the brim with people. But now, caught in the sights of the Red Wolf, Sandor had the distinct feeling she was the only person in existence.

Sansa floated over to where Sandor stood, and came to a stop right in front of him. Sansa stood before with a cute familiar grin. It was a knowing grin, one that told him she had thought just as much about him as he had about her over the last year. “You look rather handsome tonight, my Lord,” she said. “Would you do me the honor of keeping my company this evening?”

His mouth must have been hanging open, because Sansa lifted her eyebrow as if to clue him into the fact that he had not moved, much less breathed, since she spoke to him. Sandor was dumbstruck, gobsmacked, unable to move as she stared at him clearly waiting for an answer.  “My Lord?” she asked again, this time with a gentle teasing to her words.

Her voice woke him from his surprise, her smile moved him do what was expected. Holding out his arm to her, Sandor felt a jubilation that he had rarely experienced. 

It felt right. 

It  _ was _ right.

She stood beside him with a proud smile on her face, bravely defying those who would have taken issue with her choice. 

“You’re sure you want to do this?” Sandor whispered to her, trying to give her one last chance to back out. 

Sansa merely turned her head, her piercing blue eyes looking right into his. “I’ve never wanted anything more,” she said with a confidence that made him feel calm, despite the continuous beating of his heart. 

He felt like he was on top of the world with Sansa’s arm looped into his. It was only once his nerves began to settle, and his proverbial feet began to come back down to earth, did Sandor see the displeasure on people’s faces and hear the surprised murmurs of the crowd. He didn’t have to glance to where Lord and Lady Stark were sitting to know Sansa’s mother was displeased. He could feel the anger and shock rolling down to them from small dais where they sat.  _ She wants to castrate me more like,  _ he joked with himself.

A few more young ladies came out after Sansa, which gave him some time to think about the next part of the evening, the dance. There was indeed a reason why he had never come to this festival, though Lord Stark had asked him several times in the past, Sandor loathed dancing. He loathed everything to do with pomp and circumstance as a matter of fact, preferring to live a quiet life in nature away from the view and judgement of others. Sandor put his hand over hers at this thought, knowing she too, preferred freedom over the bounds of her station. 

_ It’s just like fighting, only with your feet,  _ Sandor reminded himself. That didn’t help that sinking feeling of knowing he was going to look like a bloody bear who had been taught to dance by a blind man.

Not having too much time to ponder how ridiculous he would soon look, as the music stopped playing. The modest group of musicians waited for the crowd’s applause, which would signal the end of the Choosing, and the beginning of the next test, the dance. Sansa was beaming, of course, looking the part of a queen.  _ My queen,  _ he managed think, his eyes settling on hers. Placing his left hand on her waist, she easily took his right hand with a smile.

Sandor knew this song, which made him feel only slightly better about the whole thing. When the proper note was struck, he moved his right foot forward, and Sansa followed. There were a few jerky moves to get them going, and he couldn’t say whether he was making the whole thing up or actually executing the right steps. All he knew was that it was working. 

Sansa moved with a grace that was uniquely her own, as if she knew every step and misstep he was going to take before he did. Had Sandor been alone, he would have certainly stumbled over his own feet. Yet somehow she kept him in rhythm. That little smirk on her face said it all. He was in her world now, dependent on her to guide him through it. He would have to trust her in order to make this work, to dance through the night and make it look like they were meant to do so. If anything, he was up for the challenge.

It was difficult to look upon her breasts busting out of her finely made dress,  and not remember how they had felt in his hands. Firm, round, and fully aroused they had been exquisite—more than he deserved. Sandor found himself more than once stealing a glance at them, to the point where he needed to spin her out just so it wasn’t obvious to everybody in attendance what he was doing. Twirling her out when the music allowed, Sandor enjoyed watching her dress flare and her hair move softly over  her shoulders and back. She was smiling, she was laughing, and the Lord of the West could not have been happier. He had even forgotten he was dancing.

They passed several songs together before Sandor began to realize she wasn’t getting enough air, that she was overexerting herself. It was the way he could see her back and shoulders turning a pale shade of red, and how she did her best to take in breath when there was a slight pause in the music. “Are you okay?” He leaned into her, bringing Sansa’s body against his, though it was not considered good decorum to do so.

“Of course,” Sansa answered, attempting to cover up that she was out of breath. 

Reaching around her body with his left hand, Sandor quickly lead her toward the side exit of the Great Hall. “Let’s get you some air,” he whispered in her ear, inhaling her sweet flowery scent as he did so.

Her weak smile was Sansa’s way of thanking him for being so attentive as she hung on his body. Sandor knew her corset was too tight on her body. As beautiful as it may be, it was a constricting piece of clothing Sandor knew from the southern courts. 

Pushing the heavy door open, Sandor pulled her into a quiet garden. There was not a soul there, save a few small bats flying around chasing their dinner. The cold air would hopefully invigorate her, and a little bit of rest would bring her breathing under control.

“Breath deep,” Sandor ordered, holding the bulk of her bodyweight. 

Sansa seemed to get her legs under her, and Sandor slowly let her go. “You look stunning tonight, Little Bird. Did you do all this for me?” His words came out more insecure than he would have liked, but then again, it felt so good with her, so right.

Sansa merely smiled and muttered something he couldn’t quite hear, and then she started to fall to the ground. 

Sandor caught her quickly, pressing her to his body and gently coming to his knees. 

She had fainted.

_ You’ll forgive me, I hope,  _ Sandor prayed. He then removed his dirk from its sheath and ran it up the back of her dress, cutting cleanly through the laces of her corset. 

Once she had the space for her ribcage, her shallow breathing changed and she gasped for air.

“Sansa?” Sandor ran his free hand over her face, trying his best to bring her back to herself. He  also didn’t want to startle her either. Before he could help her properly to consciousness, the sound of hastened footsteps drew his attention. 

“Unhand her you brute!” came a shrill voice only a few paces from where he was on the ground with Sansa. 

The unmistakable sound of steel being unsheathed made his eye turn quickly. There were two young lordlings, though Sandor could—for the life of him—not remember who they were. Lady Stark was not far behind them, clearly his and Sansa’s hasty exit from the party had not gone unnoticed. 

“Lord Clegane, if you don’t step away from my daughter, I’ll be forced to ask these men to disarm you.” Sandor’s eyes met Catelyn’s and he could see she was afraid. She was a lady after all, unaccustomed to violence. Yet her fear didn’t seem to be of the physical. It was something different.

Sandor took a moment to calm himself, well aware that his looks and size were threatening enough. If he threw anger on top of that, the situation could deteriorate into violence at a moment’s notice. Wars were often started over stupid things such as marriage and scorn, and Sandor Clegane had fought so long and so hard that he felt himself entitled to some peace. 

Eyeing the three people in front of him and the glint of light that came off swords that had never been bloodied, Sandor turned his attention quickly back to Sansa. He was cradling her mere inches from the ground, thinking about what he would want to do next. She was slowly coming back to herself, but still not fully aware of what was going on. He lay her head gently on the ground, and stood up to face the Lady Catelyn and her mob of boy suitors.

When he spoke, his words came out in barely restrained anger. “If you think you can intimidate me with two green boys, and speak to me in a disparaging tone, Lady Stark, then you’re barking up the wrong tree.” Sandor pained himself to be understood, knowing that his accent often came out stronger when he was on edge. A misunderstanding could cost a young lordling—or two—his life tonight.

“How dare you talk to me in such a manner.” Catelyn Stark’s voice was one of shock. It seemed few had ever stood up to her. 

_ Well there’s a first time for everything _ , Sandor mused, knowing this was not a fight he was willing to back down from.

“How dare you put these boys’ lives at risk by having them draw their weapons on a man like me.” Sandor knew he was a killer. It was what he was good at, where he excelled, and he felt no shame in it. He could still love like any other man, had a heart like all men.

The night air was crisp despite the light from the sky, and Sandor felt himself annoyed by the tension in the air, by the looks of these two young suitors who were unsure whether to attack him or run. “Put those bloody swords down, you little twats, before you poke your eyes out with the bloody things,” he snapped.

The young men put their weapons down, relieved they would not be asked to engage him in combat. It was known throughout Westeros that the Hound could take on three grown men at the same time and not bat an eye. These two were far from grown, but more like sticks that might turn into men one day if they were lucky.

“Now you listen to me—” Sansa’s mother began.

“No! You listen to me.” Sandor cut her off and could see the indignation rise in her cheeks. “I’m just as surprised as anybody that Sansa chose me, but she did.”

“She’s a child, Clegane, and she doesn’t realize the opportunities she’s passing up marrying a lesser lord.” The Lady Stark was angry. Sandor could see it in her eyes, feel it through her body language. But he didn’t need a high-born lady to remind him that he was only one or two steps above a peasant, that he was barbaric in comparison to the other lords of the island. 

That fact didn’t, however, make him any less worthy of Sansa. 

Sandor quickly found himself unable to fight the anger coursing through his veins, swallowing hard just to keep it down. “Better a lesser lord than to marry for status, to waste away in a loveless marriage.” Sandor could feel he was pleading with her, imploring Sansa’s mother to hear his side. 

“Lady Stark, I love Sansa. Not because she’s your daughter, or because she’s beautiful,” Sandor could see the faces of the young lordlings shift uncomfortably. “I love her because she’s strong. She stands up for people weaker than her, she’s selfless,” he paused a moment trying to find the right word, “and she’s bloody brave as well. She’ll keep me in my place, that’s for sure, teach me how to rule.”

The Lady Stark’s eyes narrowed, as if his words had caused her even more anger. “She’s not  a teacher so you can learn what a lord is supposed to do, Clegane.” He could see her get emotional now, a sadness and a determination filling her eyes, “She’s my daughter, my little girl. And a man like you isn’t going to take her away from me.”

They glared at one another, neither he nor the Lady Catelyn backing down. Sandor understood better now where Sansa got her boldness and determination. That didn’t mean he was going to allow her a victory.

Not now and not ever. 

Feeling a hand wrap itself gingerly around his arm, Sandor turned to see Sansa standing next to him. Her free hand clutched her corset so as to cover her modesty. Relief washed over him to see her on her feet again, and a warmth rushed through him knowing she was standing strong by his side. 

“What’s the meaning of this, Mother?” Sansa asked, though her tone hinted at the fact that she had a very good idea of what was going on.

“Come, Sansa. We’re going back to the Great Hall so you can rethink your decision.” Caetlyn’s voice was firm and unyielding.

“No, Mother.” Sansa spoke calmly. “I’m not going anywhere, nor would I choose an Umber,” she said, looking over at one of the boys, “or a Karstark” she said, looking at the other, “as my lord husband. I’m not going anywhere unless its with Sandor.”

Sandor stood quietly next to her, this woman who was almost his wife. She might as well be his wife even now. They were not married yet, but he could feel the strength of their bond. As far as he was concerned, they were as good as married already. He could see the anguish on her mother’s face, see the pain behind the anger as she replied. “Sansa, I won’t allow it. I won’t allow you to be spirited off by a man we hardly know, by a barbarian.”

“What do you know about me, Lady Stark?” Sandor asked his voice raising in irritation. It only increased the tension of the moment, made those around him flinch. “I sacrificed more for the North than any of those men in the Great Hall, and certainly these two.” He pointed at each of the boys before him and watched them shiver under his gaze. “And I’m not leaving unless Sansa comes home with me.”

Lady Stark opened her mouth to say something, but the voice of Lord Eddard stopped her. “He’s right, Cat.” He emerged from the darkness, Alistor by his side. 

Sandor’s best friend gave a little nod, but Sandor didn’t need that to know Alistor had retrieved Lord Stark from the party. Cracking his knuckles, Sandor knew that crazy son of a bitch Westerman was ready to fight the boys with his bare hands if necessary. Swords against fists,  _ Just like the good old days _ , Sandor smiled to himself. 

“There’s not a Northman in that room who can claim to have fought harder and lost more men than Lord Clegane.” He made his way closer to his wife as he spoke. Lord Stark was calm and collected, a level head in heightened tensions. “And he loves our daughter, Cat. A father knows these things, and I see the way he looks at her. I know he cherishes her.”

Releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding, Sandor felt better, more at ease. He covered Sansa’s hand with his own, and remained silent.

The emotions of the situation seemed to catch up with Lady Stark, for Sandor could see her lip quiver. “I don’t want him to take our little girl, Ned. My baby, so far away…” 

Lord Stark brought her close to him and wrapped her in his arms while she wept. 

She didn’t really hate him. Sandor could see that now. She was just sad to see Sansa grow up, move far away, and perhaps never see her again. 

“Oh, Mother,” Sansa walked over to her parents and hugged them as best she could with one hand keeping her corset high. 

_ They’re a beautiful family,  _ Sandor thought to himself as both the Stark women wept.  _ I hope I can give her that. I don’t want a day to go by without her smiling, without her being happy. _

“I’ll visit. I promise,” he could hear Sansa saying, though she was somewhat choked up from the whole thing. 

The tension slowly left Sandor’s body, he was relieved the situation had not escalated further. Feeling a nudge, Sandor looked to his left where Alistor now stood. Winking, he handed Sandor the tied together laces of his knee high boots and wiggled his eyebrows. The confusion as to why he would do this must have been clear on Sandor’s face, because his friend pointed to Sansa, her bare back somewhat exposed in the pale sunlight. He realized then that Sansa might want to have her dress laced back up, just not as tight as before. Looking down at his friend’s boots, Sandor had to chuckled because he looked utterly ridiculous. Without their laces, the tongues of the boots flopped over and Sandor wasn’t even sure if he was going to be able to walk in the loose things, or ride.

Patting Sandor on the back, Alistor retreated to the party. Certainly there was a Western jig to be danced before the night was out, and Sandor knew his friend to be one that enjoyed a good bit of fun. 

It felt like he was intruding on a family moment, the way Sansa and her parents were whispering to each other. There were words of love and encouragement, but there was also a sadness. They had lost their eldest boy to war, and now their eldest girl to the West. He would never deny her the North, though, never come between her and her family. There was a saying in the West often used after you tamed a wild horse. If the horse has chosen you, and you ride together in happiness, never fear when it runs off. It will always come back to you if it was meant to be. With Sansa there was no difference. She had chosen him and he knew deep down it was meant to be.

Returning back to him, Sandor clutched Sansa tight, inhaling the scent of her hair. Her arms could barely reach around his barrelled torso, but she did her best to bring his body flush with her own. The summer had, indeed, given him something he would have never dreamed of. A bounty so precious, that a man could work a thousand summers and never reap it. 

He loved Sansa Stark, and—against all odds—she loved him. 

Together they would rule the West and bring peace and prosperity to his people. She would be the lady he had always wanted, the one his people deserved. For the first time Sandor could remember, the great warrior of the West felt what it was to have peace.    
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I began to put this story together, I had two ideas I wanted to merge into one story. The first vision was that of a young Sansa being saved by Sandor, and him bringing back the head of her enemy. The second one was the scene here where she emerges from the arch to find him. It's not easy to capture that feeling of knowing that everybody's eyes are on her, but then realizing that she only has eyes for you.
> 
> And finally, after all these chapters, we get epilogue lemons!!!! *happy dance*


	9. Epilogue: The Lady of the West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor must find his bride in order to consummate their marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story hasn't been easy, with 113 type written pages it's been quite an effort. With that said I have been so pleased with its reception and the outcome that I can't thank you enough for reading it. What started as two very strong visions of Sandor saving a young Sansa from battle, to standing there nervously hoping to be chosen as her husband -- blossomed into a great feel good story.
> 
> I can't thank Teakturn and Toodle oo enough for getting me through the mental blocks, hard times and for helping make this story so much better than originally planned. Big hugs to both of you.
> 
> I'm both happy and sad to see this story go. Now I am freed up to finish other stories I've left unfinished!!!! Thanks for the support!

#  Epilogue: The Lady of the West

 

Running through the forest as fast as he dared, Sandor cursed under his breath. He wore only his kilt, his sporran, one sock, and one shoe—though those last two were on different feet. 

 

They’d  _ stolen _ his bloody wife. 

 

Those bastards he called friends had absconded with her on their wedding night, and it was up to him to track them down and win her back. It was tradition, of course, stealing the bride during her wedding party and making the groom pay for her safe return with the literal clothing on his back. Just the same, Sandor wasn’t one for tradition, and certainly not one to have his wife stolen from under his nose.

 

The Lord of the West shook his head. He’d kept a relatively good eye on her the entire evening, aware that Alistor and his men would be waiting for the right moment to strike. He had abstained from too much drink, refused to go look at the multitude of gifts the clans had brought to the celebration, even done his best not to relieve himself so Sansa wouldn’t leave his sight. He laughed now, knowing it had been a futile endeavor from the beginning, but he wasn’t going to let those cunts have a laugh at his expense without a bit of a fight.

 

There was, however, a concern in Sandor that he couldn’t fight. In the weeks leading up to the wedding Sandor had told Alistor many times that Sansa was not like other women. He had laid out, in the most basic terms possible, that in the North women saved themselves for their husbands. He had painstakingly explained that their virginity was thought of as sacred, and thus she was off limits. Sandor had felt like bloody Ned Stark as he found himself giving his best friend the same talking to as he had gotten some years earlier. Alistor hadn’t believed him at first. In fact, he had accused Sandor of being selfish with his wife. 

 

_ Cunt,  _ Sandor thought to himself affectionately while he thought back on their exchange. He couldn’t blame his friend for saying such a thing. It was the custom on these nights for the best friend of the groom not only steal the bride, but ensure she was well warmed up by the time the groom found her. It was said in the West that a woman’s first orgasm was the hardest, then the second, third, fourth, and so on, were much much easier. Sandor knew it to be true, yet he worried for Sansa.

 

These kinds of acts were normal in his lands. If Sandor were to die in battle, tradition would dictate Alistor take her as his wife. This meant it was never a bad idea for them to get to know one another in advance should such a thing happen. Sansa had, however, grown up in a different way, and he didn’t want Alistor to talk her into anything she didn’t want to do. 

 

He knew his best friend well. That blonde haired, baby-faced, motherfucker had a tongue on him that could convince you to do just about anything. Sandor always teased him that it didn’t make up for the fact that his pecker was small. That was usually enough to shut his friend up with a grumpy face and a sheepish grin.

 

Pressing on through the woods, following the latent signs of best friend carrying his wife through the brush, Sandor paced himself. Rounding the large tree and coming up on a clearing overlooking a hill, he sensed he was close. Alistor had been too drunk to carry her much further than this, a small saving grace. 

 

It was then that he saw it. A torch hung on a tree, Stranger nibbling grass nearby, and his dear old friend stood in front of a large felled log. It had grown dark quickly this late summer night and Sandor had only just made it before dusk had turned into total darkness.

 

“Finally the monster arrives.” Alistor greeted him with his arms crossed and a cheeky grin on his face.

 

Sandor raised an eyebrow in confusion.

 

“I didn’t mean your face, mate.” Looking down at Sandor’s kilt, Alistor wiggled his eyebrows indicating the monster of which he spoke. “Give it up!” he ordered.

 

“You want my kilt, you bloody girl?” Sandor asked, no longer in the mood for games. He wanted his wife, he needed her in his arms. 

 

Walking up to Sandor, Alistor merely yanked the finely woven garment from Sandor’s hips. “Yeah, your last payment, my friend,” he grinned. “Keep the sporran on, though.” His friend winked, knowing how ridiculous and uncomfortable Sandor would feel wearing his bit of lamb skin.

 

“But that covers bloody fuck all,” Sandor argued, the pouch hid a bit of his cock from her view, but the damned thing was still hanging several inches below his sporran. It only added to the fact that he looked like a bloody tosser with one shoe, one sock and his woolen man purse with his cock out. 

 

Alistor gave him a knowing smile. It had been his intention to make Sandor look as ridiculous as he could before he was to lay with his wife for the first time.

 

Sandor had reached the end of his journey to retrieve Sansa, though, and with that knowledge, his frustration slowly subsided. All this tension he had built up over keeping her safe began to leave his body. 

 

He and Alistor embraced. “She bloody well loves you, mate,” Alistor whispered in Sandor’s ear. “You’re a lucky man.”

 

Though it was awkward, even by Western standards, to be naked and embrace your best mate so tightly, Sandor didn’t care. This was the beginning of something different, something new. They had always done everything together, he and Alistor. Ate, slept, fought, wept. All of those things. Marriage and responsibility would change that forever, and Sandor knew it would be a difficult transition toward domestication for both of them. 

 

He sighed.

 

“I never wished your death before tonight, but, uh…”Alistor had a presumptuous grin on his face, and Sandor clopped him on the shoulder for his troubles. 

 

“Don’t you be sneaking around these bloody trees now,” Sandor warned playfully. He wanted his time alone with her, not having his bloody best mate watching them from the bushes just because he hadn’t seen a cunt in weeks.

 

Pointing behind the felled log, Sandor’s second in command walked past him and back toward the keep, whistling a tune as he did so. Taking a deep breath Sandor readied himself for this moment with her, their first as husband and wife. His bloody cock was half hard and dangling down his inner thigh in the brashest of ways—several partially engorged inches poking out of the bottom of his sporran.

 

Finally gaining the courage to round the log, Sandor was not disappointed by what he saw: the old oak tree under which Sansa lay had what seemed like a hundred tiny lanterns in white. Their candles emitted a soft, warm light in the darkness. 

 

It must have taken Alistor ages to light all the damned things, must less to hang them. It was the task of the best man to create a suitable bed for the married couple to spend their first night together. Sandor could see his dear old friend had put a lot of time and thought into making this moment special.

 

Underneath the tree, Sansa lay on a blanket made of a hundred white rabbit skins. Her hair was fanned out across the soft fur. She looked like a damned angel fallen from the heavens. Sandor grinned.  _ Bloody bastard _ , Sandor thought, knowing Alistor had done this so as to show him he had not taken Sansa’s maidenhead.  _ So he does listen to what I fucking tell him. _

 

Though he still didn’t think he could totally trust his friend. Sansa’s dress was opened such that he could see her peachy nipples through the transparent fabric of her shift, her cheeks were slightly flushed and her lips a bit swollen. Sandor couldn’t help but grin at Alistor’s brazenness.

 

“The greatest hunter in all of Westeros and it took you  _ ages _ to find me!” She smiled broadly, clearly taking in how funny he looked.

 

“It looks like you found a way to pass the time, dearest lady wife.” He could see the momentary look of panic on her face, then she realized he was kidding her. Sansa still had a lot to learn about Western humor, and it was very cute to him. 

 

Sitting up Sansa did defend herself, “It’s difficult to see a grown man cry,” she said. “I mean he was balling his eyes out for the simplest of things.”

 

Sandor couldn’t help but snort at her words, knowing Alistor would go to any low necessary to get what he wanted. She continued, “So I let him kiss me a little and help me out of my dress… That’s all.”

 

Sandor crossed his arms as if he didn’t believe her, but of course he did. They loved each other like mad, and he knew she would not go back on her word to him. “Now take those silly things off and come here,” Sansa reached her arms out to him, a sign that she needed him as badly as he needed her.

 

She didn’t need to tell him twice. 

 

Sandor ripped off the rest of his sparse clothing, hopping on one foot to get that damned shoe off like a bloody tosser, then crawled on top of her with haste. Her lips tasted so sweet, and they were so soft. Sandor wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to how soft they were. 

 

Wrapping Sansa up in his arms, he knew he could stay like this all night, despite what his cock was telling him. That bloody bastard of an organ was relentless in its pursuit of what it wanted, and it had only ever really wanted her. Sandor knew he would have to temper his lust if he was going to make this moment enjoyable for Sansa. He had heard that a woman’s first time was often painful and unpleasant, and that they would bleed. Sandor winced at the very thought of hurting her in any way, particularly drawing blood. Knowing this made him hesitant to take her, but he knew to make the marriage valid according to the laws of the land, he must.  

 

Sandor shook these unpleasant thoughts from his mind and focused on her lips. His fingers stroked her body, his nostrils took in her scent. They enjoyed kissing one another, that much he was sure of. He could tell that Sansa enjoyed the scratching of his beard on her face and neck, that she liked the feeling of his strong body close to hers. She was aggressive in her search for his lips, though he still found himself asking why. Whatever he had done in his life to deserve this, he could not say, only that the gods had blessed him with a hungry little beast who was demanding to be taught the ways of the marriage bed.

 

After some long, sweet moments, they came up for air. Looking up at him, Sansa wore a satisfied look on her face.  “Alistor did show me what he thought you might like,” she said cryptically, pulling Sandor’s face back down to her own, her fingers laced in his long hair, her body warm against his. 

 

Allowing her to pillage his lips a bit more, Sandor then stopped, pulling his head back and looking her in the eye, “Oh did he now?” Raising an eyebrow, he waited for her to explain herself. 

 

“He mentioned a few strange things though, like I should put  _ it  _ in my mouth,” Sansa whispered her words as if she were discussing something naughty. Sandor was surprised that this would be a topic of conversation, but hearing such words come out of her mouth gave the great warrior an extra jolt in his groin.

 

Her cheeks reddened at the realization that he would probably like her to put his cock in her mouth, to suck on it until his tip grew red and hard, play with it until he covered her face with his seed.  _ Oh, yeah. No doubt I’d love that,  _ he affirmed to himself. 

 

Sansa’s features were a cute mix of surprise, consideration, and curiosity.  _ She’ll be an amazing wife,  _ he thought. He knew it in his gut. Sandor couldn’t help but kiss her neck and jawline in response. She was so delicious, so sexy in every way that he wanted to love every part of her. 

 

“Alistor also demonstrated some, um, positions that we might like on that, uh, stump over there.” Sandor laughed into her neck, thinking of how ridiculous it must have been to watch Alistor making love with his kilt over his hips to a bloody stump. “He got very into it as well,” she giggled pulling Sandor even closer to her. 

 

They kissed for a long while, their hands exploring each other’s bodies in the soft glow of the candle light. The breeze picked up, making goosebumps rise on her skin. Sandor could feel the sheer silk of her shift was catching on his calloused fingertips, and that the cooler parts of her skin were heating up under his touch. “I wouldn’t touch that stump if I were you,” he breathed into her ear and was rewarded by a soft laugh. 

 

“Please take me from behind tonight, too,” she taunted softly in his ear, knowing full well it would thrill him. Growling at her indecent desires, Sandor found himself rubbing his fully engorged length over her silken small clothes. It was reminiscent of their last intimate encounter, but this time they were both ready for more.

 

Rolling so that Sansa was positioned on top of him, Sandor made sure his hand wandered down to her bum, so he could feel it through her clothing. He had only needed to tug at her dress once or twice for her to sit up and slowly start removing her gown. He was letting out deep breaths now, watching her firm little body slowly being laid bare for him. He’d touched parts of it before, but in the darkness trying to hide from the others around them. 

 

Now there was no need to hide, no need to cover anything up—their love for one another, their bodies, nothing.

 

There was a light dusting of freckles on her chest that he had never quite noticed. They were light, but still there, her fair skin not made for the warm, strong sun of the West. Her nipples were pink, resting atop the peaks of her breasts, their tips aroused. They looked delicious. Sandor reached out to touch one, just to make sure it was real. 

 

She was smiling at him, looking down at his hand, her eyes moving to his face. Sansa was  _ looking _ at him, too. There was no mistaking the lust in her eyes. Sandor knew she liked the strength and shape of his body, often leaving a hand lingering on his chest or forearm when they would speak. What surprised him even more was how much she seemed to like the hair on his chest. Sansa’s eyes would often sneak a peek at his dark curls when his tunic became unlaced, or when they went swimming together. Now, she dragged her fingers lasciviously from the bottom of his ribcage through his chest hair, relishing the feeling of having it all to herself.

 

Sansa played with the curly brown hair, running her fingers through it and tugging on it ever so slightly. She leaned down to kiss him there, and Sandor was pleased he had worn some fancy Dornish perfume, for he could see she was taking in his scent with a huge grin. She placed a trail of kisses down the center of his chest, following it down his abs and ending in his belly button.  _ Little tease, _ Sandor chuckled to himself at the wry smile now on her face, and the eye contact she made with him. Sansa was close to his cock, yet not close enough to take it in her mouth. 

 

_ Next time,  _ Sandor mused. He wanted to make today about her, her feelings, her passion and her happiness. He was her husband, after all, and while providing for her and protecting her were paramount—so was her satisfaction. 

 

Sandor felt the burnt side of his lip pull up in a smile and thought, _ Gods, I need you _ . He motioned with his finger that she should move closer to him, and the little minx walked her hands slowly back up his body, making sure her breasts dragged over his muscles, her stiff nipples gently plowing their way through the jungle of hair on his bare chest. They kissed again, her breasts hanging over him, the feeling of her weight on his body. He had to lift his neck to reach her, but he didn’t mind. 

 

When their lips separated, his eyes went immediately to the apex of her thighs. A beautiful red thatch of curls covered her most intimate parts, but her warmth and wetness was clear to him on his belly. She had soaked him there already, aroused by the touch of his hands and the hunger in his lips. 

 

Slipping his hand behind her head, Sandor brought Sansa’s lips to him again, but this time made sure to push her hips lower on his body, so she could feel the pressure of his thickness at her opening. 

 

“Mmmmmm,” was the only thing that passed her lips as she felt his large rounded head come in contact with her slit. 

 

Sandor knew he was big, and had done his best to prepare himself for the reality that Sansa might find it difficult to take him the first time. He had even gone to a wise woman of his clan in a panic, asking how they might be able to fit together on their wedding night. The old lady had cackled, amused by the concern he had for his young wife-to-be. “She’ll have to bear your child one day, Clegane. So I think you’ll be fine, unless you’ve got a cock as big as a child.” The old hag had laughed at her own joke then, making it clear to him that he was worrying about nothing.

 

The conversation had not made him feel better about the whole situation, just drove it home that it was a natural right of passage for a young lady to feel discomfort. “A woman’s life is pain, Clegane, but if you are affectionate to her, caress and love her, you’ll spare your sweet wife the brunt of it.”

 

He could only hope the old lady’s words were true, for he did not want Sansa to shed tears in their bed—not now or ever.  Moving his hips slowly against her body, Sandor was overwhelmed by her. She felt great, her little wet pussy lubricating his mushroomed tip. All he needed to do was not get ahead of himself, otherwise he’d prove himself a green boy on their wedding night—and he couldn’t allow that. No self-respecting Westerman could.

 

Part of the felled log that served as their headboard was right behind him. Breaking their kiss momentarily, Sandor pushed himself up so the broadest part of his back rest against the log, and pulled his legs closer to his body. She could feel the change in his position between her legs as well, because she smiled at him and steadied herself with a hand on his chest. 

 

She was an angel, a goddess come to earth to bring men like him to their knees. Taking her in, Sandor slid both of his hands over her hips, then moved to the underside of her bum. He stretched her cheeks away from one another, so she could feel what it would be like to be spread. Sandor couldn’t wait to feel her on the inside, to know he was going to fill her completely. 

 

Moaning, Sansa nuzzled his ear and laced her fingers even more tightly into his chest hair. 

 

Sansa was bringing her hips back so she could feel his erection pressing against her. It was natural for her to do this, because Sandor knew it felt good for a woman. Women could have just as much pleasure as a man with sex, perhaps even more as they could peak several times in one night if their partner was inclined to have them do so. He hoped he was up for the challenge, the night was still young after all.

 

He wanted Sansa to moan, grunt, curse, and literally scream bloody murder at the end of his cock. Sandor knew he would do everything he could to please her, no matter what it was. For now, he was happy to see she had found a nice rhythm to slip herself over his manhood. It was a new feeling for her, his naked flesh on her own. He could see her exploring it in her mind, thinking about how she might make it feel different or better. 

 

Sansa was moving her slit shamelessly on his head, until finally he felt it slip into her opening. It was the tip of his cock only, its ballooned head not allowing her to easily push it back out again. He could feel how her pussy flexed around it, unaccustomed to such an invasion.

 

“Fuck,” was all he could murmur at the feeling of her tighness. It was going to be much more difficult than the thought to keep a cool head, to not embarrass himself on their first night. 

 

There was surprise in her eyes at the ease with which he had slid inside of her. He too was surprised, but pleasantly so. Using his hands, Sandor began to move her hips in a circular motion, hoping to widen her opening further. He wanted her to ride his tip, needed her to go fucking wild with his cock inside of her. 

 

Sansa seemed to catch on quickly, for she began to move and tease him with an increasing confidence. Settling in to the feeling of her warmth hugging his engorged length, Sandor began to suck one of her nipples. She couldn’t resist letting out an animalistic moan of pleasure he had heard yet this evening. 

 

There was nobody around, not a soul to hear them—this probably enabled his little bird to throw caution to the wind and just do as she pleased. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open and her beautiful red hair was flying around her neck. If she didn’t take more of him inside her soon, this encounter would be over before it really started.

 

“Please, Sansa,” Sandor found himself breathing into her chest, “Please don’t torture me forever.”

 

Her cheeks reddened more than they already were. She had probably not realized what she was doing to him, how her movements were bringing him to an early completion. Dropping her hips slowly, Sandor could feel a barrier press against his stiffened head. It could have only been her maidenhead, for he had never felt anything like it before.

 

Their eyes met and he stroked her thighs encouragingly. The pace with which she was impaling herself on him was so deliciously slow, that he feared he’d fill her with his seed before she peaked. Without warning, Sansa let herself slip further and further down his shaft. The severing of her virginity came with a quick intake of breath, and before he knew it, she had taken him completely down to the base of this thickened trunk.

 

“Oh, Sandor,” she groaned, leaning forward and using his chest to steady herself. 

 

Reaching around, Sandor could feel where they were connected--her little cunt stretched to its limit. It was exciting to feel her like this, to have the woman of his dreams spread wide by him, doing her best to stuff his full length within her. She was frozen though, her breath hot on his ear and her hands gripping his chest tightly. It was no wonder she was reluctant to move, because if she was feeling him as strongly as he was feeling her, they were both afraid to hurt her. 

 

Releasing hot breath on her neck, Sandor did his best to focus. She was straddling him, with her knees on the ground, her temple next to his own. Putting both of his hands back on her hips, so as to keep them in place, Sandor began to move his cock up and down as softly as he could. His movements were small at first, barely noticeable. As he watched her relax, a content smile crossing her lips, Sandor could also feel her loosen up a bit. It wasn’t much, but enough to allow him more movement, longer strokes, and a more steady pace.

 

There was no doubt how hot she was for him, copious amounts of her moisture were running down his length and over his balls. Their warm trails  punctuated by the wet slapping sound of their bodies in the total silence of the night. It was amusing how still she was, her knees planted firmly on the rabbit skins, her hands squeezing his shoulders as if she were holding on for dear life. 

 

It made Sandor remember how overwhelming sex was the first time, and even the next few times after that. There was so much going on from the movement of the hips, to the feelings both inside the body and outside on the skin—he could understand why it was enough to just let him work himself inside of her. 

 

Sandor took long strokes, wanting her to know the feeling of his cock from base to tip. He wanted her to memorize it so she could think about it later and desire him. Keeping his left hand on her hip, Sandor moved his right up her spine, resting between Sansa’s shoulder blades. That seemed to wake her from her concentrated state of pleasure, because her eyes opened immediately as if he had woken her from a dream. 

 

He would have given anything to know what she was thinking at this moment. Her eyes were huge like saucers, the pupils dilated due to the low light of the candles. He began to move her up and down on his cock, guiding her to use her legs to move and her arms to steady herself. Sandor couldn’t fight the lopsided grin that was slowlying forming on his marred face. He had all but quieted his movements in favor of having her start her own. She was moving faster than before, bottoming out with a firm slap of her bum on his thighs. 

 

Sandor pressed his face into her chest, the rough hair of his beard caressing the soft skin on the crests of her nipples. He was driving her mad. He knew it because she had picked up the pace she was using to ride him, her moans, grunts and screams growing louder with every merciless stroke. Sansa’s chest was turning a deeper shade of red, a sign of both her exertion and a hint that she was close to finding her pleasure. 

 

He popped her firmly on the bum and she never even noticed, Sansa was so caught up in feeling him inside of her. This was bliss, everything he had hoped it would be and much much more. Even just a few years ago, had anyone told him he’d marry the most beautiful high-born woman in all of Westeros for love, then watch as she artfully found her first release on his cock, he would have laughed. It was impossible, if not unthinkable to have dreamt such madness. But the world had changed for him in ways he could not have imagined.

 

Once Sansa’s pace began to slow, Sandor knew she was close. He put his hands on her hips, not wanting to interrupt her pleasure, but wanting to make sure she didn’t come uncoupled from him either. She was looking into his eyes, her beautiful chest heaving, the veins on her neck popping out ever so slightly. Sansa’s expression was one of enjoyment and confusion.  _ She doesn’t know what’s going to happen next,  _  he realized. 

 

So he encouraged her. “Gods, woman, you’re amazing,” he muttered, barely able to get the words out himself. Her muscles began to seize then, her nails digging into him as her pleasure burst to the surface right before his eyes. The redness in her chest had moved quickly to fill her cheeks, her long neck was exposed because she had tipped her head back to release her pleasure. Sandor was breathing hard, though he had not done much of the work here. Sansa’s long red hair slid over her breasts and nipples as if it were auburn water streaming from her shoulders. She was even more stunning in her contentment, having fulfilled her carnal urges with his manhood as her tool.

 

Sandor pressed his head against her chest and brought his arms around her. Sansa’s muscles were relaxing, no longer able to hold her above him as she had been.  He held her there for a couple of moments and listened to the beating of her heart. She was the Lady of the West now, his wife, confidant, and closest advisor. 

 

Sandor knew he was helpless but to do everything for her.

 

Placing his right forearm under her bum and his left hand between her shoulder blades, Sandor rose to his knees and placed Sansa carefully on the rabbit skins on her back. He made sure to remain sheathed, not wanting to break their connection even for a second. He chuckled softly because her eyes were still closed from the orgasm she had enjoyed. Kissing her on the neck softly, Sandor needed to rouse her from her pleasure, remind her there was more to do.

 

Raising to his knees, Sandor brought both of her legs to his right shoulder, his right arm hugging her thighs close to his body, his left moving up from her knees to her feet. Sansa had fantastically long legs that came to rest right near his ear. As he began to pump his cock inside of her, Sandor also started kissing the bottoms of her feet. She giggled when his beard came into contact with the arch of her foot, but also couldn’t help but gasp in pleasure from what he was doing to her with his hips. 

 

Sansa was the embodiment of a nymph from Western fairy tales. The mythical forest creature that would lure a man into her cave, seduce him, and demand he make love to her until he breathed his last breath. Such was the look on her face. It was confident, content, and hungry for more. He knew he could stay there all night and all day, eat nothing and living only on the enjoyment of putting such a look of love and desire on her face.

 

Letting her get a good sense for his manhood, Sandor continued thrusting inside of her with a pointed yet slow pace. She was fresh off her first release and he knew the second would come much faster. He must have had a devil’s grin on his face, because she shot him a questioning look from her comfortable position on the furs. 

 

Lifting a cryptic eyebrow, Sandor removed himself from her wet heat and was rewarded with a bit of a pout. “Get on your hands and knees,” he said gruffly, rolling her legs over so as to aid her. 

 

There was a fair bit of pride that came with how readily she assumed the position he described.  _ Alistor’s demonstrations on the log must not have been so bad,  _ Sandor chuckled lightly. 

 

She was facing away from him, her rounded ass making this cute little heart shape that Sandor really loved. Her inner thighs were red from where they had been coupling, her lips wet and spread open ever so slightly. They look stretched and happily used, giving him a pang of male pride. Sandor gave himself a good stroke while he took in the view.

 

Sansa had no idea what she was doing to him, how such a position brought out animalistic, carnal urges in him that he would need to temper. Sandor was not one to ask the gods for help, but this time he knew he would need divine intervention not to bang all seven of those buggers out of her at once.

 

Licking his lips, Sandor admired her beauty while giving himself a moment to calm his urges. She was even more beautiful with that annoyed little look she was shooting him from over her shoulder, as if he wasn’t moving fast enough to fill her again. She was a demanding little lady wife, and he loved it. Grinning, Sandor rubbed two of his fingers over her sensitive pussy. Her release was thick and plentiful. 

 

Taking his place between her legs, Sandor brushed the tip of his cock over her slit and she shuddered. He did it again, then began to bring himself gingerly inside of her. 

 

“Ohhhhhh…” She moaned deeply, a sign of how much she enjoyed their coupling.

 

_ She wanted this, _ Sandor reminded himself knowing that some high-born women found this position degrading. To him it was anything but degrading. She would feel him deeper and closer than she had before, and he wanted that badly.

 

It didn’t take him long to get started, his cock fitting more easily this time than it had before. What Sandor hadn’t been ready for was how deep and hard she wanted it. His little lady wife was screaming for more and pushing herself back onto his cock with an intensity that would lead to his undoing. 

 

Sandor tried to slow his pleasure down by kissing her back and her ear while doing everything he could to give her what she wanted. He was bottoming out at a rapid pace, growls emitting from his throat that even he wasn’t ready for. 

 

Every angle felt good, every depth brought with it closeness to her. He was pushing himself, sweating and heaving to give her the friction she needed. Sandor had never done such things with a woman he loved, and with it came such a rewarding sense of intimacy that it only made him hungry for more. 

 

It was when he felt her cunt began to squeeze him again, that he too reached his peak. It was as if he had lost all bearing on where he was, the explosion of light in his eyes mixed with the utter darkness of him shutting them. Sansa’s tightness was milking his seed right from the source, squeezing in time with its flow. In the meantime, her arms had collapsed and Sandor did his best not to fall on top of her, still attached with her from behind.

 

He had never felt like this with anybody before, never felt so tired or satisfied. She was a gift, and as Sandor rolled on his side so as to avoid crushing Sansa under his weight that was the only thing in his mind.

 

He thanked the gods for what they had given him.  _ If it’s going to be like this all night, she’s gonna kill me,  _ Sandor teased himself, still out of breath from the amount of work she had demanded of him. 

 

Cuddling tight with him, Sansa kissed his chest. Sandor took this moment to cup her chin so she would look at him. “My wife, the Lady of the West,” he said reverently, not really having the strength to say much else. 

 

She said nothing, merely giving him a huge, satisfied grin then settled her cheek back down on his chest. Her heart was beating through her chest and Sandor knew she had no intention of stopping their play here. For now though, they were both content to lie there and take in the moment. 

 

His whole life Sandor had never felt he deserved happiness like this. Certainly it had not been written in the stars for him. Everything in his life until this point had been difficult, violent, and  without a view into the long term. All that had changed because of her. 

 

Sandor wasn’t one to believe in the sayings of the wise women, particularly when they talked about fate and destiny. Yet he couldn’t help but feel that destiny had indeed brought them together. He could have gone a million years and lived a million lifetimes and never found what he had in Sansa Stark. She was the most precious thing to him, and with her came the promise of an endless peace and prosperity for himself and his people. The bounty of summer that would last a lifetime.

 


End file.
